


stuck in my head (and I can't get you out of it)

by saugaboi



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, frankly there's a little bit of everything in here, matt is here a handful of times, metaphors abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 19:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saugaboi/pseuds/saugaboi
Summary: It’s the story of his life, of him and Mikey, isn’t it?They’re alwaysalmost.Always so close - so close to warm beach sunrises and a dozen roses, so close to scorched lands or cold waters. For the past several months, not for the first time in their lives, they tread along paper-thin lines, leaving Ryan addicted to the high of almost getting there.





	stuck in my head (and I can't get you out of it)

**Author's Note:**

> title from Back to You by Selena Gomez

Kids, more often than not, don’t get the benefit of the doubt on most things. It’s more or less just assumed that they don’t know what they’re talking about, or they’re making things up - overactive imaginations too quick to frighten. It’s almost like they’re treated as a different kind of human, just because they don’t have ‘life experience’ yet, but sometimes, those overactive imaginations formulate things with some truth to them.

They have to get their inspiration from something, after all.

Ryan didn’t really experience it first hand all that often, and least not about important things. His fear of the dark, of the monster under his bed that turned out to be the cat most nights - these things were all validated to him by his parents and his brothers.

He _did,_ however, see it happen. A lot.

The first time he remembers it, he’s about four and had managed to rope Matt into playing with wooden blocks with him for a while, giggling as he knocks over his older brother’s ‘castle’ and Matt pretends to be mad.

Mikey walks into the room, then, a little wobbly on his feet as he wipes his eyes. The moment he sits down next to Matt, he presses his face into his arm and says nothing.

“Sorry, bud,” Matt pats his back, “but it’s not _real.”_

Mikey just shakes his head, and Ryan puts down the block he was holding, worried. “Wha’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Matt says, but Mikey looks over at him, and he’s still crying, so he’s pretty sure _something_ is wrong. Even if he trusts Matt not to lie, ‘cause lying is bad.

So… he wouldn’t lie, would he?”

“He does,” Mikey tells him before he gets up and leaves.

They go back to building blocks, but Ryan isn’t having fun anymore.

For him, that’s kind of where it all begins. He didn’t really know what was going on, but _something_ was there.

For him, it begins with tears and wooden blocks.

Mikey, however, never got a choice in the matter.

They’re laying on the floor colouring in colouring books, a bright array of crayons scattered in front of them. Every time he goes to look for a new colour, Mikey always hands the one he wants to him.

The fifth time he does it, Ryan takes it, but “how you _do_ that?”

“Do what?” he asks, shrugging one shoulder like he doesn’t know exactly what he means.

“Know what crayon.”

“‘Cause you’re thinking it.”

Well, yeah, but he doesn’t think he’s saying it out loud.

“You aren’t, but I still hear it.”

“How?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs again. “I hear everybody.”

Ryan bites down on the yellow crayon thoughtfully, and Mikey takes it from him. “Like a superhero?”

Mikey blinks, surprised. “You believe me?”

Of course he does. Why would he lie to him?

“I wouldn’t.”

It becomes apparent very quickly that no one else believes Mikey, but _he_ does, and Mikey says that’s enough, so it’s okay. It doesn’t make sense to him that no one else thinks he’s telling the truth, but there isn’t anything he can do about it. Mostly, Ryan just thinks it’s cool that his brother has like, real life superpowers. 

“Nope, just the one.”

“It’s still cool.” 

The second time he remembers it, he’s six, and Mikey had poorly tied a blanket around his neck like a cape. They proudly deem him Super Mikey - which, yeah, he knows that’s not very original, but they were kids, okay? - and he tells Ryan that he’s his trusty sidekick.

They don’t give him a special name. He’s just Ryan.

Now, when you’re seven, there’s not much you can _actually_ do in the means of being a superhero. Not really. Instead, Mikey runs around the backyard, carrying Ryan on his back while he holds on for dear life and laughs too loudly.

When Matt comes outside to tell them it’s time for dinner, Ryan pouts, not wanting to let go just yet. This is a lot of fun.

“Then hold on,” Mikey says, and he does.

He carries him all the way into the dining room, and when he puts him down, their mother walks over to help Mikey untie the blanket cape. “Have fun?”

“Uh huh!” Ryan chirps happily, but when he looks up at Mikey, he’s biting down on his lip, and it looks like he might cry. He doesn’t want him to cry, doesn’t want him to be sad at all, so he grabs his hand, ‘cause who doesn’t feel better when you’re holding someone’s hand? No one, as far as he’s concerned.

“Thanks, Ry,” he says, but it’s in the kind of shaky way that words always sound when you’re trying not to cry. Like when you scrape your knee, and it hurts _real_ bad, but you wanna act like it doesn’t anyway.

He doesn’t _think_ Mikey scraped his knee. Or his elbows or anything else. But maybe he did.

He shakes his head and lets go of Ryan’s hand, mumbling, “I’m not hungry." 

“But-” Ryan starts, because he was _just_ saying that he was real excited for dinner.

“I’m _not,”_ he insists, and, after the usual speech from their parents about skipping dinner and how he’ll be hungry later and he won’t be allowed to have any ice cream, he slowly sulks off to his room.

Ryan’s pretty sure that’s, like, the worst thing in the world. No ice cream.

He brings Mikey an extra roll when he’s finished eating, stealing it off the plate when no one was looking. He walks into his room and sits on the floor right next to him, holding the bread out. 

“Thanks,” he takes it, but his words are still shaky, and his cheeks are wet, and Ryan doesn’t know what’s going on, but Mikey’s sad, and that makes him sad.

Mikey bumps their shoulders together. “Don’t be.” 

“But-” 

“It’s okay.” 

It’s not, he can tell, and while he knows Mikey can hear him thinking that, he doesn’t say it, instead choosing to just lean against him to try to make him feel a little better. He isn’t sure if it works, but he sure hopes it does, ‘cause holding his hand didn’t and he’s running out of ideas. 

He could get up and see if Mikey’s teddy bear is on his bed, but he doesn’t even get to actually move before his brother turns and hugs him, squeezing tightly. 

Of course. Why didn’t he think of that? 

Mikey laughs at that, and it makes Ryan feel a little better. 

He just wishes he knew what was wrong. It doesn’t make sense to him, because he was having fun outside. Unless he wasn’t. Or maybe he did scrape his knee after all. He could probably find a bandaid somewhere if he needs one.” 

Mikey goes back to sitting shoulder to shoulder and shakes his head. “No, Ry, I’m fine.” 

“Then why-” 

“Momma doesn’t believe me,” he shrugs. “She still doesn’t.” 

He sounds like he’s gonna cry again, so Ryan holds his hand even though it didn’t work the first time. He didn’t hear either of them bring it up, so maybe he musta missed it- 

“No. She didn’t say anythin’.” 

So then- 

“She’s happy I know it’s not real,” he sniffles. “That I’m just makin’ it up.”

He doesn’t really have anything to say to that, just holds onto Mikey’s hand and thinks nice things, and wants more than anything for him not to be so sad anymore. 

He remembers a lot of that. Of their parents being happy that he realised it was make believe, that he grew out of his imaginary friends, that he gave up on it all together, eventually. He never heard any of it, but Mikey did, and he’s never had a reason to think he’d make that up.

He doesn’t understand why he’s the only one who ever believed him. It just doesn’t make sense. Not even Matt was in his corner.

Mikey stops replying to what people are thinking before he’s eight, when it’s just easier to convince himself he can just turn his brain off and only hear what’s being said. Except sometimes it blends together, and it’s difficult. He finds himself reading lips to help, and that seems to do the trick a little better. 

At least that’s how he explains it to Ryan.

Things slowly get more and more difficult for him to cope with, and Ryan is there every step of the way - albeit a few steps back, but he tries to keep up when no one else bothers. 

The first time he finds Mikey in the middle of a breakdown is when they’re nine and ten and he’s trying to find his brother at recess, but he’s nowhere to be found. He gives up, thinking maybe he got in trouble or had to go home sick or something. When he walks over to one of the benches, however, there’s someone sitting behind it, and it sounds like they’re crying. 

He doesn’t even clearly make out who it is before they speak quietly. 

“Ryan?” 

“Mikey?” 

He looks up, and his face is all red, and there have been very few times where Ryan has been this concerned about, well, anything. He sits down in front of Mikey slowly. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“They don’t stop-” he shakes his head like he’s trying to make the contents of it spill out “-it’s so loud.” Covering his ears, he lets out a broken sob. “It’s so loud.” 

Ryan’s scared. He’s never seen Mikey like this, and he wants to help, wants to do something, but he’s scared, and he starts to cry too. Just a little. 

“No,” Mikey shakes his head again and reaches over to wipe away his tears. “Don’t, Ry bread.” 

“I’m scared,” he says quietly, even though he knows he already knows that. 

“Me too,” he mumbles, “but you don’t gotta be.”

“But I am.” He really, really is, and he doesn’t know what’s going on, but he can be certain that he has every right to be frightened by it. He’s never seen his brother like this. 

“It’s never been like this,” Mikey says, his lip quivering as more tears spill down his cheeks. “I don’t know what’s happening.” 

Ryan grabs his hand and squeezes it, just hoping it’d help even a little. “Do you want to go to the nurse?” 

Sure, there’s nothing she can _really_ do in this case, but some Tylenol could help? Maybe? Either way, it’s probably quieter in her little room in the back of the office than it is out here with everyone else. Maybe she’d even send him home, and it’s _definitely_ quieter there.

Mikey nods, and Ryan helps him stand up, not letting go of his hand as they go to find a teacher, who lets both of them go inside when Ryan explains that he’s got a _real_ bad headache and he should probably go with him just in case.

He even manages to convince the nurse to let him stay until he has to go back to class. Well, mostly Mikey convinces her by saying it’d make him feel better to have someone sitting with him. She simply tells Ryan that he shouldn’t talk to him all that much - or at all - or else his headache won’t go away. 

Which, well, not talking is no problem.

He sits at the bottom of the uncomfortable excuse for a bed, tying and untying Mikey’s shoes. 

_Are you feeling better?_  

“Yeah,” Mikey whispers, nodding slightly. The nurse can’t really be upset if _he’s_ the one talking. “A little, I guess.” 

_What happened?_  

“I dunno. It’s never- it got so loud.” 

_Loud?_

“Too many voices-” he picks at the peeling blue paint on the wall “-it was weird.” 

_Do you think you’ll needa call mom?_  

“Maybe.” 

He tugs at the laces, frustrated when the mess of a knot he made won’t come untied again. 

_I’m_ \- he pauses, folding his hands in his lap - _I’m scared, Mikey._  

“Please don’t be.” 

_But you were-_  

“I know.” 

The nurse comes over then, to check on Mikey, who takes the offered Tylenol and juice box, and to tell Ryan he needs to go back to class.

He really doesn’t wanna. He wants to sit here with Mikey until he knows he’s okay. 

“But-” 

“It’s okay, Ry bread. I’ll see you after school.” 

He worries for the whole second half of the day, but also he tries not to, ‘cause Mikey said not to, and that just stresses him out even more. It’s a mess, and all he can think about all day is how _scared_ he looked when Ryan saw him behind the bench. He doesn’t want Mikey to be scared. 

It’s hard to decide if he’s relieved or not when he gets on the bus and Mikey isn’t in the seat he always saves for them. So he probably went home, which is good, because it really seemed like he needed to, but it _also_ means it’s gonna be another fifteen minutes longer until he sees him. 

Mikey’s waiting on the sidewalk in front of their house when the bus pulls up to it, and Ryan crashes into him the moment he hops off the last step, hugging him like they haven’t seen each other in weeks.

“Hey, bud,” he laughs. “I’m okay.” 

“You are?”

“Uh huh. Took a nap and everything.” 

He could use a nap too, probably. That was a lot of stress for one day. He’s only so big and can only handle so much.

Mikey chuckles at that, breaking the hug so he can take his hand instead. “Sounds good.” 

“I gotta do my spelling first,” he huffs as they walk back toward the house. “‘Cause I don’t think I’ll be allowed to until it’s done.” 

“You’ll be okay. I’ll tell Mom ‘n Dad that we’re doin’ homework in your room and you can sleep while I do mine.” 

“But-”

“And I’ll help you with yours when you wake up.”

Ryan happily swings their hands between them. He’s so lucky to have Mikey.

“Not as lucky as I am to have you, Ry.” 

“Are too.” 

“Are not.” 

Days like that start to happen more and more often moving forward. Mikey gets better at holding it all in until they get home, which hurts in its own way. They sit on the bus, hands folded together and pressed between their legs so no one sees, Ryan running through his day in his head so Mikey has something to focus on until they get home where it’s quiet. 

It becomes second nature, in a way. It forms like a habit, and soon Ryan is always thinking about Mikey. _It’s okay. I’m here. I saw a cute cat outside, did you see her? My teacher drew a stick figure on the board and it looks like you, ‘cause its smile is sideways. I know it’s loud now, but we’ll be going home soon. I love you. I wish you could talk back so you could give me answers on my math tests. If a song is stuck in my head, do you hear the song or me singing it?_

The answer to that one, apparently, is a strange combination of both; it’s the actual track with just a little bit of Ryan in it. Almost bashfully, Mikey admits that it’s one of his favourite things to hear.

So, Ryan sings-but-not-really to him a lot, too. 

He doesn’t know when Mikey is listening, or if he even _can_ sometimes, especially when they’re nowhere near each other, but he always tries to make sure his brother knows _he’s_ here whenever he can. 

It’s probably more of a distraction than he - and his grade - really needs, but he doesn’t mind one bit. Sometimes, it feels like Mikey’s right there with him, and that’s never _not_ better than being apart. 

That, and he’s been told many times that it’s what gets Mikey through the day. It’s what makes things bearable - a comforting voice over the constant hum of strangers - it’s often what makes everything _possible._  

It doesn’t feel like it, though, not on days where there’s nothing left to do but hold onto his brother so tightly they both start running out of air, and he sings their songs and holds on tighter until the tears staining his shoulder dry up. 

But he says it helps, and Ryan is inclined to believe him. 

At minimum, it’s a way to pass time and feel like he’s helping when there’s really nothing he can actually do to _fix_ the problems. 

It’s like when you get sick and you go to the doctor, and they say you have some kind of virus which pretty much means you’re out of luck. You’re left with nothing to do but take Tylenol and drink lots of water until it passes; treat the symptoms. It’s a bandaid of sorts. 

A world of voices inhabit Mikey’s head at all times like a virus, and Ryan’s gentle thoughts are the Tylenol, quieting them down but not curing it. It’s better than nothing, he figures. 

He’ll be Tylenol until it stops working, because that’s a thing that can happen apparently, or until they find a way to kill the virus. But he’s pretty sure he learned that viruses just kinda… exist or something, which doesn’t leave much room for hope. He tries, though. 

They’re on opposite sides of fourteen and laying in Mikey’s bed, Mikey on his phone while Ryan lays on his stomach a little further down the mattress, working on some homework. It’s nothing new, really, even with Ryan’s free hand wrapped loosely around one of Mikey’s. 

This is just how their afternoons tend to go these days. It has been since Ryan needed help on an essay and they found themselves in this arrangement. He’d been more comfortable and productive than he’s been in ages, so he asked for help again the next day even though he didn’t really _need_ it - Mikey knew as such, obviously - and from then on it just kind of stuck.

It’s the only thing that makes doing homework bearable.

“You feel really nice,” Mikey says out of nowhere, and when Ryan looks up, he’s smiling softly. 

“What does that mean?”

“It’s kinda new,” he takes his hand back so he can run it through Ryan’s hair, “so I dunno, but. Just- c’mere.”

Ryan squints at him, and Mikey pushes his books out of the way, holding his arm out. 

“I _do_ have to do that, you know,” he says, moving up closer to his brother anyway. 

“Mhm, later,” he dismisses, and Ryan knows he’s not actually going to get around to doing it. They’re just gonna lay here instead. “When did I say that?” 

“You didn’t have to,” he laughs, resting his cheek on Mikey’s arm, “we both know it’s true.” 

“Maybe.”

He’s pretty content to just lay here like this, but when Mikey wraps his arms around him and tugs so Ryan is laying on top of him, it’s even better. 

“It’s like a purring cat,” Mikey grins. “Comforting little vibrations.” 

“I mean, last I checked, I can’t purr.” 

“No, but whatever you’re feeling- it feels like that for me. It’s really nice.” 

“You can tell what I’m _feeling_ now?” 

“I guess so.” 

“Couldn’t just stop with the thoughts, eh? Just gotta add more to it,” he teases. 

“I think I like this better. But I can’t tell _what_ you’re feeling yet. I just… feel it too.” 

Ryan turns his head and looks over at the discarded mess of notes and textbooks. He isn’t sure what he was feeling, or is, apparently, that would cause a feeling like that. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with geometry, he could be sure of that. So, maybe then it’s simply happiness, or comfort, considering he’s pretty much always at contented ease when he’s around Mikey, and it seems like it could be that. It just doesn’t really make much sense - new thing or not, Mikey probably would have felt that before.

In the silence, he can hear Mikey’s heartbeat where his ear is pressed to his chest, and the steady rhythm of it makes him feel a little lighter.

He realises, then, what that feeling must have been. 

“I love you too,” Mikey says quietly, and Ryan’s suddenly warm all over, and he bites down on his lip to stop his smile from growing too big.

As nice as these little moments are, it’s not hard to tell that things are starting to weigh on Mikey even more than they already were. It’s hard. It’s hard to watch and know there’s nothing more he can do to ease it.

Everything gets the tiniest bit easier over the summer as they always do, when Mikey can take days where he can sit inside and only have to hear his family and some of the neighbours. When he can take days where he and Ryan can go to a quiet part of a park, and sometimes it’s just the two of them. Neither of them speak much on those days, not when it’s the most quiet Mikey is able to get.

He wonders why, once, why Mikey wouldn’t just go by himself, so the world would be silent to him for a short time. All he’s really doing by bringing Ryan is adding a voice when he doesn’t need to.

_“I’ve never not had you there. It would feel wrong to not hear you.”_  

He doesn’t understand what that’s like, but in a way, he does. It’s always weird when he’s not near his brother in the first place, but he isn’t even sure what he’d think about. ‘Cause it’s always Mikey. 

It’s always Mikey, and Ryan loves him.

They’re sitting under a tree at the far corner of one of the parks, Mikey leaning against it while he holds him against his chest with one arm around his torso, his free hand tangled with one of Ryan’s. They’re not worried about it - the casual affection in a public space - as they’re _never_ really worried about it; Mikey would be able to hear anyone before they saw them, anyway.

Ryan still thinks it’s dumb that they have to be on edge like that in the first place. They don’t even have anything to hide. It’s just the way it is, though, he knows.

“I know,” Mikey says, pulling him a little closer. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.” 

He leans his head back against his shoulder and looks up at the bits of sunlight coming through the leaves, and it feels a little bit like time has stopped, the gentle breeze the only indicator that it keeps going. He kind of wishes it would stop, because he could live in this moment forever if he got the option. He’s warm, and he has Mikey, and Mikey has quiet. 

It’s the end of summer, so they won’t have it much longer. 

Ryan looks over at him, and Mikey’s eyes are shut. His eyelashes are really pretty, he thinks, but he isn’t even really sure why. Like, what even makes eyelashes _pretty?_ He doesn’t know, but also it doesn’t matter, because Mikey’s are anyway.

It’s still a little weird, too, getting used to his face thinning out. It almost seems like he gets less soft at the edges every day, and it’s not a bad thing. Not at all. 

He looks… good. 

Not like he ever didn’t, at least as far as Ryan is concerned. 

He’s just- he’s really happy. In this moment and in general, and his heart feels too full, like it can’t contain it all, and it’s overflowed and he’s just filled to the brim with good things. Mostly love, he notes. Not really surprising, truthfully. It’s miles from unusual.

Still, it’s a little different this time. Slightly to the left, and he isn’t sure what that means. 

“You’re so warm,” Mikey says quietly without opening his eyes.

“Well it _is_ summer.” 

“Not what I meant,” he looks over at him, and his expression is so soft that it makes Ryan’s stomach flip. 

“Oh,” he thinks he knows what he meant now, “like-” 

“Yeah,” Mikey nods. He carefully moves the arm that’s wrapped around him so he can rest his hand over Ryan’s heart. “It’s my favourite.” 

“Isn’t it a little too hot out for _more_ warmth to feel like a good thing?” 

“Not when it’s yours.”

Turning just the slightest amount so he can press his face against his neck, not quite embarrassed but something along those lines, _I love you,_ he thinks, because it’s easier than saying it out loud. 

“Me too,” Mikey mutters, holding on just a little tighter.

He wonders what about him makes his love or whatever make Mikey _warm._ If he were to think about it, like, really think about it, he feels like it would be something a little different than that. Sure, it makes Ryan feel warm too, but it’s… almost a specific kind of warm. 

Looking down to where their hands are folded in his lap, it’s almost too easy to picture. 

It’s warm, like he said, like a beach at sunrise. He thinks of those pink beaches, the ones someone explained to him once but he can’t remember why the soft sand looks like that. Not that it’s really important, but he thinks that’s probably the right kind of… vibe? 

The water is beautiful too. Clear where he stands, the gentle waves stopping at his feet, and, a little further out, it’s a crystal blue - the kind that swimming pools try to replicate the appearance of. They can’t get it right, though, not quite. Nothing could match the real thing. 

The real thing. 

Maybe that’s where his heart lies, in those waters. Warm and gentle like the waves, like the real thing. 

He wonders if the sunrise paints the sky the right colours. Soft pink like the beach, and blue like the water. It probably does, he figures, because that’s the way it should be. It should be like that, and he can’t really imagine why any part of it would be wrong.

Regardless, that’s the kind of warm he feels. 

“That’s exactly it,” Mikey muses. “The waves.” 

Ryan bites down on his lip and feels the waves getting bigger. 

Sooner than he’d like, school starts back up. Mikey won’t say anything about it, but it’s pretty obvious that the noise is getting to him again. Maybe more than ever, what with the addition of the feelings thing.

It has to be confusing, and he’s just worried, is all. He’s worried, and he lays on Mikey’s bed and does his homework, and his brother says nothing. He doesn’t ask, and he knows Mikey can hear him wondering, but those are two different things.

Either way, he won’t answer. 

He’s tired all the time, and he has a feeling it’s because he stays up at night to get some quiet. 

“You know too much,” he looks over at him, his small smile a little too sad.

“I don’t know enough,” Ryan shrugs.

“Ryan-”

“Stop. It’s fine. You don’t wanna tell me.” Shutting his binder, he gathers up the schoolwork and slides out of the bed. “I have study hall tomorrow. I’ll just do this then. Get some sleep tonight, _please.”_

Mikey frowns at him, but he lets him go anyway. 

It gets worse, and Mikey doesn’t even come out of his room on weekends. It sucks, it really fucking sucks, and Ryan stops going to sit with him; does all his homework in the dining room and spends as much of his free time as he can in the basement, just trying to give him as much space and quiet as possible.

It hurts.

But it’s what Mikey needs, so it’s what he does. The reason he’d started spending nearly every minute with him in the first place was because that’s what he needed at the time.

And now it isn’t. 

It’s fine.

It’s not. It’s really, _really_ not, but he pretends it is. Not for himself, but for Mikey. He’s upset, and worried, and even a little scared, but the thing is- his job has always been to think those sweet little positive things so Mikey has an escape.

So, while maybe he isn’t even listening to him, instead letting his thoughts mix in with the white noise of the neighbourhood, he’s going to continue to do it anyway.

As concerned as he is, he knows it’s more helpful to mask it, thinking about the summer and days in the park and being held under a tree and pink sands and blue waters. Of waves and love crashing on the shore, a soothing sound in the silence of dawn.

He thinks about building blocks and crayons and blanket capes and only getting half his homework done because they could only handle the small space between them for so long. 

He thinks of unknown lies and not-scraped knees and schoolyard benches and lonely weekends.

Of heartbeats and _I love you too_ and _you’re so warm._  

He’s hurting himself now, he thinks. 

_God,_ he’s hurting and he just wants to help. It’s almost November and the only time since school started that he spent any measurable time with Mikey was on his birthday. That was before things got really bad, though. 

It just sucks, because he can’t sleep and he tries to think of these nice things but they make him sadder, so he doesn’t know if it’s helping either of them. It feels like it’s making things worse. 

Hard to tell when Mikey won’t talk to him. 

His bedroom door opens slowly, and Ryan sits up when Mikey shifts uncomfortably in the doorway, one foot in and one out, like he’d leave if that’s what Ryan wants. Which, that couldn’t be any more obviously the exact _opposite_ of what he wants. Just seeing him standing there has settled something in his chest, like the waters were too rocky, but the relentless waves have smoothed them down. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, but it feels too loud anyway. 

Silently, he shuts the door and walks over to Ryan’s bed, climbing up and kneeling next to him. 

He’s missed his best friend so much, and it makes his stomach turn being this close to him but still not feeling like he’s allowed to t- 

Mikey wraps his arms around him, squeezing a little too tightly, but he’s not going to complain. Not at all, not when this is the first time he’s gotten this in months. Not when his neck is a little wet from where Mikey’s pressed his face against it, and his heart aches for him, but he gets to hold on this time. And he does. 

He holds on and thinks nothing, just lets the warm happiness settle, hoping Mikey can feel it too. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, muffled and too watery - too sad. It feels wrong. None of this has felt right. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” Ryan whispers, resting a hand on the back of Mikey’s neck. “It’s okay.” 

“No, no it’s not.” 

Well, no, it isn’t, but he’s here now, and maybe he’ll let him help, and fuck, he’s _here._ Like, tangibly right here, and he gets to hold onto him, so it isn’t like it’s worse in any way than it has been.

Mikey leans back, keeping one hand resting on the small of his back, wiping at his eyes with the other. “You’re too fucking forgiving, Ry.” 

He reaches over and cups Mikey’s cheek with one hand. “Not with you,” he shakes his head and feels his eyes start to water. “Not when it isn’t your fault.” 

“It _is,_ though. I-” 

“Did what you had to,” he tangles their fingers together. Yeah, it fucking _hurt,_ can’t pretend that it didn’t. Can’t pretend that little pieces of his heart were chipped away every day like crumbling drywall, fragile but determined to stay standing. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand, on some level. 

Actually, he doesn’t understand at all, but that’s kinda what he means. 

He doesn’t know what Mikey’s going through, not one bit, but he knows how it’s affected him before, and if it’s so bad that he has to isolate himself like that, then- 

Then Ryan and _his_ feelings shouldn’t really be part of the equation right now. 

“Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“I still-” his lip wavers and he bites down on it for a second, taking a deep breath “-I still hurt you. That’s not okay. That’s never okay.” 

“Mikey-” 

“No, I’m serious.” 

Mikey shifts so he’s sitting, shoulder pressed against Ryan’s, and Ryan feels like they’re children again, the main difference lying with the buzzing concern and the fact that it’s continued this far into the conversation. The buzzing is less like a bumblebee, small and soft, and more like when you’re at an amusement park and a rollercoaster flies by as you walk near it and you can almost feel the vibration of it in your bones. Or when you’re at a concert, and you can feel every note in the centre of your chest, like its retiming your heartbeat to match the beat of the song. 

Except those are both fun things, parks and concerts, and it turns out that the vibrations that usually mean summer and good times and close friends are a lot scarier in the absence of those things. 

They’re a lot scarier at night, alone in your bedroom in late October. 

“I’m right here,” Mikey says softly, squeezing his hand. 

“But you weren’t,” Ryan shrugs with one shoulder. 

He doesn’t mean to make him feel guilty, but he’s being honest. Not like he could really lie to him anyway.

“You were helping. I- I need you to know that.” Ryan looks over at Mikey, but he’s staring down at their hands. “I missed you, I did.”

Didn’t feel like it. 

“I know.”

“Then why-” 

“I fucking couldn’t do it, okay? I can’t- I can’t handle this shit anymore.” He looks like he might cry again, but the tense set of his jaw says enough. It’s not sadness right now, not really. “You were always there, and then I- I don’t know. It sucked, and I was - _am_ confused.” 

“Confused?” 

“It’s so bad,” he laughs bitterly. “You know when you’re in a big crowd of people, and there’s this constant _hum_ of noise, of people talking and shouting and laughing and-” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well that’s just. That’s what I hear all the time, but it’s louder. So much fucking louder. And when you’re in that crowd, and you’re packed together just a little too tight, and it’s hard to tell where you’re going or where you came from? ‘Cause you’re getting pushed and pulled all over the place? I feel that too. Every day. But instead of people, it’s feelings.” 

He can’t fucking imagine. He hates being in crowds in general, even if it’s for or because of a fun reason. They make his stomach turn just a little bit with exactly what Mikey was describing. The noise and being squeezed and getting lost in it.

Ryan can’t imagine going through that every day. 

No one can even see it, either. He’s not lost in a packed crowd, just walking a school hallway, and who’s going to notice the boy that’s shaking for no reason, lost to the world in a sea of other students. 

Ryan wipes at his eyes with his free hand. _Fuck,_ Mikey doesn’t deserve that. His brother is miserable all the goddamn time and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You did, though.” 

He just shakes his head, not really having any words. Besides, he’s pretty sure if he opened his mouth, the only thing that would come out is a sob anyway. 

“Ry. You did. I didn’t- _that’s_ what I didn’t deserve. You should have just. I dunno.” 

“Left you alone?”

“Well, no, you were doing that, but-” 

“You know what I meant.” The constant small comforts, an old habit.

Mikey hesitates. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Why would I do that?” Ryan looks over at his brother who finally looks back up at him. That almost hurt more than the past two months. “Why would you think I’d- after everything?”

He hates that his vision is so blurry, hates that he can still see that Mikey is crying too. This isn’t fair, like, none of it is.

“Because you _should_ have. I’m. I was a dick, Ry. I pushed you away, but you wouldn’t _go._ Not really.” 

“Because I didn’t _want_ to. You’re too important to me, ‘n I may not be able to feel _your_ feelings, but you know I hate when you’re upset more than anything. Always have.”

“I didn’t want to make things worse,” he says quietly. 

Ryan lets go of his hand and shifts away from him, because if being near him was going to make things worse all along, then it’s better if he just-

“No, no, hey,” Mikey reaches out, but doesn’t touch him. “That isn’t what I meant at all. You gotta know that.” 

“I don’t know what I know.”

He sighs and draws his hand back. “I know you don’t like it when I have bad days. I’ve only had bad days recently. Some of them a lot worse than others, but I didn’t  want to upset you with that, not when I couldn’t be sure that I’d come back down. So, it was easier to deal with it by myself.”

“But-” 

“Except I didn’t do it by myself, ‘cause you’re too good to me. You helped, even when I didn’t let you.” 

“Then why are you here?” he asks, not unkindly. He’s mostly sad, and he doesn’t know the difference between up and down anymore.

“Exactly what I didn’t want to happen happened anyway, and I’m sorry.” 

Ryan looks down at his hands, and it’s nice to have the apology, he supposes, but he’d really rather just have Mikey back, wants to be trusted with the bad days again. 

“Yeah,” Mikey sounds a little strangled. “Yeah, of course, Ry bread.” 

He swallows and bites his lip, because he’s happy about that, honest, but- for the most part? He’s missed Mikey so fucking much and doesn’t want him to leave yet. Wants to hold on and feel like he never has to let go. 

“I can stay in here tonight if you want.” 

_Please._  

He feels it first in his fingertips, lifting the comforter up for Mikey. He feels it next in his wrist, warm fingers wrapping around where his pulse picks up, tugging lightly. Then it’s his knee, bumping against his brother’s while he moves to lay down. His lungs follow suit, when Mikey laughs at that, and it feels like it came out of his own chest, somehow. He feels it in his waist, and his calves, and his arms, and it spreads and spreads as they hold onto each other, ending with his forehead when Mikey rests his against it. 

This time, it’s a different kind of buzzing, content and familiar. He thinks if he could hear it, it would sound like a bicycle chain. 

See, loving Mikey is like riding a bike. Easy to learn and exciting at first, and then it fades into a comfort wrapped in a small sense of freedom, like you’re a kid and now you can ride a bicycle without training wheels and anything is possible.

And, like riding a bike, even if you don’t do it for a while, you never forget how it’s done. It’s the easiest thing in the world. 

He’s here, and Mikey is right there, and he finds he doesn’t even wobble once as the tide comes in. 

Not that he’s surprised. 

“I love you,” Mikey whispers, and Ryan can feel the words as much as he hears them, a gentle breeze against his face, the kind you feel going downhill on a bike or standing oceanside at dawn. 

These are the ways he loves Mikey, because he _does_ love Mikey. More than riding a bike. More than standing oceanside at dawn. These things _feel_ like him, but they aren’t - nothing could be.

His brother smiles, and his stomach flips, and Ryan missed him so much. 

It’s bittersweet, finally being there for Mikey when things get bad.

It’s a relief, knowing he’s trusted, knowing he can try to help without needing to be in a completely different room, knowing he’s able to hold onto Mikey while he bites his lip so hard blood runs down his chin, knowing he’s the one to get the warm paper towel to wipe it away with. 

But, in the same breath, it’s hard. It’s so fucking _hard_ knowing there’s nothing he can really actually do to help. To make it stop. 

His comforts can only help so much, and it’s starting to seem his Tylenol doesn’t work anymore. Everything else is just too loud, and things keep getting worse, and the bloodied paper towels pile up.

Midway through November, as they walk side by side down dark and frozen streets in the middle of the night, he realises he doesn’t even _know_ that it’s not possible to “cure” or whatever. Block is maybe a better word, because Mikey isn’t sick. There’s nothing wrong with him. He doesn’t need _cured._  

But he does need help. 

“You can’t do anything for me, Ry bread,” he says sadly. 

Ryan just nods, but part of him just feels like they never even _tried_ to find out. He hasn’t, at least. 

“Stop that-” 

“I just think it’s worth a shot.” 

“Don’t waste your time, okay?” Mikey squeezes his hand, and Ryan nods again.

No time spent trying to help his brother could possibly be a waste in his book, but if Mikey says there’s nothing he can do, then, well. He knows how this thing works more than Ryan does - more than he could, try as he might to understand. 

It bothers him more and more as December approaches and the split on his brother’s lip seems like it’s a permanent fixture on his face. He tries not to think about it around Mikey, doesn’t want to get told no again, or upset him, or make him think he ‘doesn’t want to deal with this anymore’ or whatever else his scrambled brain might convince him of. 

It’s just hard, because he wants to try to search for answers, but he can’t, because he’d know. The problem itself is stopping any progress working towards a solution. 

It’s a stretch, he knows this, but he can’t help but wonder if there’s a way to hide certain - or even all - thoughts from Mikey. Cover them in fog, or lock them in a safe, something like that. Instead of music, maybe he can produce radio static. There’s no real way to _know_ or even practice that and know if it’s working, but that doesn’t stop him. 

It doesn’t stop him, and not even two weeks after he tries focusing on putting walls of white noise around everything else, Mikey looks at him, thirteen shades of confused as they work on homework. 

“I don’t get it.” 

“What are you working on?” Ryan asks, looking up from his math worksheet. 

“Science, but that’s not what I mean.” 

“Okay?” 

“How the fuck are you solving those?” 

“Uh,” he says slowly, tapping the eraser of his pencil against the paper a few times, “quadratic formula? How else would I-” 

“No- you aren’t _thinking_ about it. I’ve not heard _one_ ‘x equals negative b plus or-” 

“I don’t really have to repeat it every time I write it down,” he laughs lightly, even though he absolutely does. To the tune of ‘pop goes the weasel’ and everything. Thanks for that one, Mr. F. 

“You always do.”

“I dunno what to tell you, man.” 

“I wish I could turn my brain off and just have math happen like that,” he grumbles, looking back down at his mess of notebooks. “Chemistry would be a lot fucking easier.”

Ryan laughs again, shaking his head. “I bet.” 

Out of curiosity, he turns the walls to dust, and only a few questions later, he hears Mikey quietly humming pop goes the weasel. 

From there, it’s a matter of finding a place to sit down and actually research all of this - which ends up being the school library during study hall and occasionally lunch - and _then_ finding out where the hell he’s even meant to start looking. 

You can’t exactly Google ‘help my brother can read minds and it sucks can we buy him magic ear plugs at Walmart?’ 

He knows there’s a small section hidden in the nonfiction - which numbers it spans he has no idea - with things that are just slightly to the left of spiritual. He’s hesitant to say magic, but that’s nearly what it is. It’s just the sense of _other,_ and Mikey is definitely that. 

When the librarian asks him why he needs those, he lies about a creative writing project for his English class. It’s a bad like, and a dumb one, but she believes him anyway. Honestly, he probably could have told her he just found it interesting, or he just finished reading Harry Potter or some other shit. Not that it matters, because he finds a small spread of books that seem like they’d be useful to a degree. 

If he can’t find a solution, maybe he can just learn a little more about all of this. Maybe he can find a new bandaid to put over it.

From there, keeping it from Mikey is half the battle. He can’t just go off the radar at the same time every day, or shut off his thoughts any time he’s at home and the topic even remotely occurs to him - which is almost all the time. He can’t just turn off, can’t close a door on Mikey when he just reopened a different one - can’t go silent. 

So he learns to weave the comforts with the static, a comforting blanket of soundproofing that he can stitch together around whatever he needs to hide, carefully sewn shields that outwardly appear to be your average pillow. 

He can tell Mikey is more at ease once he stops going quiet, even if he doesn’t say as much. He assumes he must have thought Ryan wasn’t doing it on purpose, that it was just happening, and didn’t want to worry him with it. 

The thought hurts, but he stuffs that in the pillow too. 

The books aren’t overly helpful in terms of finding a solution, temporary or otherwise. They do, however, give him a list of terms, like buzzwords almost, that he can use to make research beyond what’s here a little easier. 

Winter break has nearly arrived by the time he has what feels like might just be the diamond in the rough, a means to an end, something that’ll _actually work._

It’s hard not to get his hopes up as he searches for local shops that follow the distinct front that this site describes, because even if he finds one, and they turn out to have what he needs, there’s not way to be sure it’ll actually work.

There _is_ a little shop nearby, it turns out. It’s not far from the mall he’s been to a thousand time, but he could _swear_ he’s never seen it before, but when he tells his mother he’s going out holiday shopping, it’s right where it should be. 

Even if he didn’t already _know_ there was something purposefully off about this place, he would have known the moment he walked in. There’s a weird vibe in the air, almost a sort of buzzing, like it’s alive. It’s the air before a storm, the static that flows invisibly through it before lighting strikes, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

There are plants everywhere, and rocks and gems of so many shapes and colours it’s hard to keep his eyes in one place for very long. His gaze is drawn around and around, and there are so many small _things_ that he knows must have some kind of significance to some kind of ability or magic or otherwise. 

It’s all very intriguing. 

A small woman with curled gold hair appears from behind a shelf, and her eyes are dark, treacherous waters, betraying her seemingly sweet smile. She’s unnerving, and Ryan nearly shudders and he makes himself return the smile. 

“How can I help you today?” 

“I uh-” he stutters and her lips twitch, and something in him realises she must think he wandered in here by accident, not knowing what he was getting into. Standing as tall as he can manage, he tries to continue with a better air of confidence. “Tin and silver - a charm. Something hard to lose.” 

“Oh,” her eyes lighten into clear pools, and it’s almost more unsettling, the blue so pale it almost glows. “Psyonic! How fun. Telepathy, clairsentience, correct?” 

“Uh, maybe?” It sounds right, at least. He just can’t remember the exact words. Or, hell, if he even got his facts straight when he was doing the research. He might have been mistaken. “I think so.” 

“Not for you, then?” she asks, turning to weave her way through the maze of a store while Ryan tries to keep up. “Someone else?” 

“Yeah, my brother.” 

She turns and her eyes flicker for a moment. “And you’ve no gifts?” 

“Uh, no? No one in our family does. Uh. Should we?” 

“Mayhaps,” she hums and continues walking. 

There’s a sense of unease that comes from the woman and the shop, but somehow, even with goosebumps and hair on ends, Ryan feels a strange sense of comfort. A… serenity he can’t quite describe. 

“It’s because of him,” she says without looking at him. “Your brother. You’re close, yes?” 

“Yeah, I- you can hear me?” 

“Not exactly - your energy is very loud.” 

“My-” 

“You feel comfortable here because I - and my coworkers as well as much of our merchandise - can access the same, uh, _plane,_ I suppose you could call it. You can’t see everything that’s around you, but there’s much beyond humans, and they have a lot to tell us.” 

Ignoring the fact that she said _humans_ instead of _us_ or something similar, he just nods slowly. “But what does that have to do with me?” 

“It’s like a science,” she says, stopping in front of a glass display of various jewelry chains, ropes, charms, and other things he doesn’t really understand. “We experience life at a different frequency. You’re subject to it when you’re near one of us, and because of your brother, it’s a normal feeling, I suppose.” 

“Oh.” 

“So, silver for the chain-” she takes one down and hands it to him “-it’ll last longer. And here are the tin charms we have.” 

She pulls out a small drawer and holds it in front of him. Honestly, he hadn’t really expected to have a choice in the matter, and now that he’s presented with one, it’s a little difficult to pick. 

There’s a little cross, a simple circle, a flower, a dog, a robot, a tangled mess of knots that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be a tree, and- 

A thin whistle. 

“That one,” he points to it, not even looking at any of the options beyond it. “The whistle.” 

He doesn’t know why, there’s just… a feeling. 

“I thought you might pick that one.” 

“Why?” he asks. 

“It’s the one that will work.” 

“Won’t they all?” He thought all he needed was to make sure he had silver and tin, like, in general. 

“Hard to tell. I’d have to meet the one who needed it.” 

“Then how do you know this one will work, if you don’t know why the others _wouldn’t?”_  

“You ask a lot of questions,” she smiles softly, and Ryan feels himself relax without even noticing he was tense in the first place. “I know this one will work, because _you_ did.” 

He _doesn’t_ know that, though. He doesn’t know that, doesn’t even know how he _could_ know that. He doesn’t say as much, instead nodding and following her back to the register. 

After the whistle is put on the chain, she runs it under water for some reason before she gently lays it in a small box. Once he pays her, she hands it over with the change and her eyes darken again. 

“Thank you,” he says, clutching the box. Tears are fighting to well up, because in his hand is the _solution,_ and he’s going to _finally_ help Mikey. No more Tylenol; no more bandaids. “Thank you so much.” 

“It was a pleasure.”

He nods, tucking the box into his pocket, and when he turns the doorknob, she speaks again. 

“Good luck, Ryan.” 

When he turns back, she’s gone, and so is the static, but he’s sure he never gave her his name. 

The cold air hits him like a wall the moment he steps outside of the shop, and it almost feels like it didn’t happen. Like he dreamt all of that. Honestly, he’d rather believe that, but the soft velvet in his pocket is a reminder that it’s real. It’s real, and he’s so close to something he’s wanted for so long- 

Mikey can have quiet, now. 

Every fibre of his being wants to give it to him the moment he gets home, but Christmas is in a mere four days, and only one of them is a school day, so he’ll wait. He’ll wait and bury the whistle in its box and wrap it up tightly in the stitched together thoughts for a few days. 

Some of it seeps through the seams, and Mikey asks him a handful of times what the hell has gotten him so damn _excited._  

The holiday season and everything that comes with it is a simple enough explanation, and Mikey just laughs and shakes his head at him, marvelling in his sudden holiday spirit. 

When at last it’s time to pull the box out of his sock drawer and go downstairs, it feels like he’s floating. He can’t help the too-big smile that stretches across his face the moment he sees Mikey sitting by the tree, the colourful lights painting a stained glass picture nicely across his features. 

_I love you,_ he thinks, _so much._

“Me too,” Mikey says quietly.

He walks over and hands him the box, and his hands are shaking as he brings them back to stuff them into the pocket of his hoodie. “For you.” 

“Thanks, Ry bread,” he smiles and sets it next to him. As much as Ryan wants him to open it _now,_ he also knows that isn’t how they do things. Family presents are always last.

It makes the morning feel like it lasts years - waiting for Matt to get out of bed alone takes several months, and with each present they unwrap, another month passes. He tries to enjoy the holiday, to really appreciate the gifts he’s given, but as the array of wrapped boxes shrinks to its last few, replaced by a mountain of wrapping paper, Ryan feels like he’s going a hundred miles an hour while blood rushes in his ears.

And then the box is in Mikey’s hand again, and Ryan can’t even focus on the present Matt gave him that he’s meant to be opening. 

Mikey slowly runs a finger along the side of the box before he opens it. 

“It’s- a whistle?” he lifts it, holding the whistle in his palm while the ends of the chain ghost against his knee.

The look of confusion Ryan is given is mirrored on all four family members, and he nods earnestly. “Yeah, I thought of you when I saw it.” 

_Put it on, Mike._  

Narrowing his eyes, he lifts the chain over his head, and the moment the whistle settles against his chest, Ryan bites his lip, hoping to god it worked. 

_Can you hear me?_  

Mikey looks wide-eyed at every person in the room. 

_Mikey. Can you hear me?_

Tearing up, he nearly lunges the few feet to where Ryan is sat, wrapping him up in a tight hug. 

“Thank you so much. Thank you, I-” he sits back on his heels, wiping his eyes “-I love it.” 

“Alright,” Matt says slowly. “Fuckin’ weirdos.” 

The rest of the day passes in a blur, and he can’t honestly say he can clearly remember the last time his brother looked so consistently happy - especially at the big family dinner. Sitting at the table at their grandmother’s house, laughing with everyone else instead of asking to be excused at the earliest possible moment to put some distance between himself and a room full of voices. 

_God,_ he loves Mikey so much, and he’s so fucking glad he gets to have this- this _normalcy._  

After dinner, they go sit in the sun porch, Mikey stretching across the glider so RYan can lay on top of him, resting his head on his chest, the whistle pressing against his cheek. 

“How’d you find this thing?” he asks, rubbing soothing circles against his back. 

“I did research and stuff,” he twists the chain by Mikey’s collarbone between his finger and thumb, “‘n then I found this weird little store. It was a whole thing.” 

“And you managed to keep it from me,” he laughs and Ryan feels the vibration of it against his cheek.

“I learned a trick or two,” he shrugs. 

It’s far too cold to be out here, which is why no one else is, and there’s a blanket on one of the chairs nearby, but he doesn’t want to get up to get it. It’s okay, though, because they’ll keep each other warm like they always do.

_I love you._  

He blinks. 

Nothing. 

Then, he remembers, and it takes his breath away, just a little. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh what?” Mikey asks into his hair. 

“Uh, nothing.” Because it _is_ nothing, really. Just… a lapse in memory. 

“Okay. I love you.” 

“Me too.” 

He’s going to need time to adjust to this, but the smiles he’s seen from Mikey all day are enough to know it’s worth it. 

Over the remainder of winter break, he struggles to remember that he has to _speak,_ but more often than not, it seems that Mikey can tell what he’s thinking anyway - he just knows him too well. That alone makes it a little easier. 

Things get a little… weird when school starts again. 

He catches himself during class telling Mikey things, and all those little comforts run on a loop like a broken record that’s been repaired and worn down again a hundred times over. Sometimes a song will get stuck in his head, and he apologises if it goes on for too long, and every time without fail, remembering there’s no point in these things makes his stomach turn to stone. 

Ryan’s just _too_ used to thinking about Mikey, thinking for him, to him. The comforts aren’t the only broken record he has - Mikey himself is a vinyl, his favourite one at that. It never wore down, never cracked, never even scratched. 

Now he doesn’t need the record player, and just has this collection of background noise he’s collected over the years with nothing to do with them. 

He wonders if his brother misses it, misses his voice. 

He doesn’t ask, though. Can’t. 

If that was it, then it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s hard, but again, it’s something he could learn to get used to.

Sometimes Mikey shuts himself in his room, or zones out for too long when Ryan tries to get his attention, like he’s lost in his thoughts in a way that he’s never been. On the days where he doesn’t even _see_ him, he can’t help but worry that Mikey just doesn’t need him anymore, no matter how well he knows that isn’t the case. 

He wants to ask what’s going on, but again, he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t know how to, because he never _had_ to. Mikey would just… feel his concern, and he could address it without Ryan ever needing to put it into words. 

He wishes he’d just _tell_ _him_ what’s going on, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t ask, and the unease festers under his skin. 

Ryan manages to keep it under wraps pretty well until they’re in Mikey’s bed while he does his homework, and after spending most of the time he’d been in there chewing on the cap to his pen instead of actually getting any work done, he sighs in frustration. With the homework, with himself, with pretty much everything. 

“Hey,” Mikey says softly, running a hand through his hair. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he offers a small smile, one that’s probably easily recognisable as fake, but it isn’t like Mikey has any way to prove that. There’s no reason for him to think Ryan would be lying, either, considering he’s never done it. 

Never had the chance to. 

But now? 

“I’m fine.” 

“Okay. C’mere?” 

He looks down at his books and bites his lip. “I gotta get this done. Sorry.” 

“Oh,” he takes his hand back, “okay.” 

That only lasts another three questions before he tosses his stuff onto the floor and moves over, tucking himself under Mikey’s arm. 

“Sorry,” Ryan mumbles, pressing his face against his neck. 

“Don’t be. If you need to do the work, then-” 

“Later.” 

“Alright.” He pulls him a little closer and rests his cheek on his head. 

It’s a little weird, to be completely honest. Not the precise situation at its surface, not when they’ve been doing this for almost a year - not when Mikey has held him for pretty much his whole life. It’s just strange to lay here and be so warm and comfortable and full of love and know his brother can’t feel it.

He has no doubt that he _knows,_ can probably even imagine exactly what he’s feeling - painting the scene is merely muscle memory by now - but he can’t _feel_ it anymore. Obviously Ryan doesn’t blame him or anything - if there was anyone _to_ blame it’d be himself - it just might take a little getting used to. He’s still trying to adjust to needing to say everything out loud. Still trying to get used to the taste of _I love you_ like saltwater on his tongue instead of the feeling of feeling the gentle rolling waves in his chest. 

It’s not a bad thing, really, nothing about this thing with Mikey could be a bad thing. Just an adjustment that needs to be made. Hell, a small one at that. 

“I love you,” he says so quietly he isn’t even sure he’d said it at all, but Mikey hums and he can feel the vibration of it.

“I know, Ry. I love you too.” 

The taste of saltwater on his tongue makes him think of sore throats and dry coughs and gross medicine. It makes him think of the ocean and too big waves that knock you over and leave you gasping for air, a mouthful of sand. It makes him think of crying, of tears that make their way to your lips, and it’s like you’re tasting your own sadness. 

These things aren’t Mikey. They aren’t at all. 

He presses his face against him a little harder, like if he gets close enough it’ll all go away. Like if he gets close enough Mikey could feel the warmth he talked about even with the whistle. 

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” Mikey says softly, running a hand up and down his back. 

“Nothing,” he replies, and it’s muffled, and he knows Mikey knows he’s lying. 

Because he can do that now. And it hurts more than he thought it would. 

It’s hard not to wonder how people do it. How they love like this, just trusting that the other person believes them. How they need to put words to everything instead of just letting it be felt. It’s a strange concept. 

He loves his family, yeah, and most of his friends, but it’s not the same. He didn’t love anyone like he loves Mikey. Probably _can’t._ Doesn’t want to. Didn’t, doesn’t, won’t. 

He knows, logically, that he already kind of loved Mikey in that way. No, he didn’t need words, and he knew he believed everything Ryan felt, but that isn’t the whole story, is it? 

Ryan didn’t really get all of that. He couldn’t feel how Mikey felt, had to believe his words. 

But in the same vein, it almost felt like he _did_ have those things. When he’d hold onto him, he knew Mikey was there, was listening, was feeling what he was feeling. It was almost like it was shared, more than just how he felt at the time. 

None of that probably makes logical sense, but it’s just how it is. He knows he should _probably_ bring it up, but he’s also just being selfish, so that would be kinda shitty. Like ‘hey I know your life isn’t a nightmare every waking second anymore but it’s making me sad so-’ is a little bit, how do you say, fucking awful. 

In spite of everything changing, he wants nothing to change. Not what he has left. 

It’s Mikey’s idea to go down to the park early one morning, just barely after four on a Saturday. He isn’t complaining, not when Ryan gets to hold his hand the whole walk over, and he knows they’ll get to see the sunrise when they’re there. 

They sit under the same tree, Mikey holding Ryan with both arms around his chest, resting his chin on his shoulder, and he can almost pretend things are the way they always were. He knows he shouldn’t keep doing that, that he should just let himself adjust to the way things _are_ and will be from here on out, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to. Placing one hand on one of Mikey’s wrists, he’s just thankful that, no matter what, they still have this. Each other. 

One thing he is a little worried about, though, is what they didn’t have to think twice about before. The thing is, Mikey can’t hear anyone else now, no better than Ryan can. It just. It’s a little concerning that they might be quote unquote caught now. He still believes there’s no reason they should actually have to be on alert for that, but, as Mikey had said, it’s the way it is. 

Again, Mikey can’t just comfort him here - he has to actually bring it up. 

He probably should have _tried_ to develop some kind of communication skills over the past fourteen years, but it isn’t like he ever needed them. Maybe this is on him more than anything else. 

“Hey, Mike?” 

“Mhm?” 

“What if- I mean- if someone-”

“It’ll be okay,” he interrupts softly. “Don’t you worry.” 

Poor communication skills or not, Mikey knows him, knows how he works. Knows him inside out - literally, in a way. It’s comforting to remember that, even if he can’t truly find comfort in the actual words he said. ‘Cause he will worry, doesn’t know that it _will_ be okay, and Mikey can’t know that either. Not like he used to. 

Add it to the list of things Mikey can’t know anymore. 

It’s getting a lot longer than Ryan would like. 

He lets himself just focus on what he does have - Mikey’s cheek against his, the too cold winter air biting at anywhere he isn’t pressed against his brother, the warmth of arms around him, and the comfort in knowing the sun will be rising soon. It’s fucking cold, of course it’s cold, but they make their own warmth. Always have been able to.

Mikey noses at the back of his ear and Ryan feels the warm spread from his chest up into his cheeks, ducking his head slightly even though he’s sure the cold has already made his cheeks substantially pink enough to mask it anyway. He lets himself bite back his fears for a second, lets himself just _try_ to appreciate what it is he has, tossing aside what he _had_ for a moment. 

No, Mikey can’t feel the _exact_ warmth he feels, but there’s no doubt in his mind at all that he has his own. He can’t doubt it when Mikey stops and Ryan looks over at him, and his expression softens until he rests his forehead against Ryan’s shoulder, laughing a little - just light puffs of warm air that adds to the comforting heat. Not when he can’t help but ask what the hell was so funny, and is met with _“you’re cute.”_  

Not when he protests that and Mikey presses a light kiss to his temple, and it feels a little like he’s gone up in flames. 

Not when he whispers _“Ryan,”_ and points at the sky in front of them - the sunrise painting it pink like the beaches and blue like the waters, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying. 

Mikey doesn’t _feel_ it anymore, but he remembers it. Maybe he has his own beach, and the skies are the same. Maybe it’s the _same_ beach, actually, and they get to be side by side on it, and look out at the sky just like this one. 

“I love you,” Mikey says quietly, right next to his ear. 

Nodding, Ryan squeezes his wrist and replies just as quietly, “I love you too.” 

The saltwater stays in his chest, and the taste on the tip of his tongue is more sweet, like the cherry lollipops Mikey hoards in his room. It finally seems to him as though everything can work out. They’ll adapt. 

Besides, it isn’t like he could find it in him to stop loving Mikey. It just isn’t possible. 

Not when he has this. 

Even if part of him still can’t quite place what _this_ is. 

Leaning his head back against the tree, he turns slightly so he can look at him, and it’s just kind of… a lot. How much he cares about him. 

Ryan’s like, at _least_ ninety-nine percent sure he truly can’t love someone as much as he loves Mikey. He _definitely_ won’t love anyone else in the same way. It just isn’t possible. And that’s fine, because why should he have to worry about that in the first place? 

He has Mikey, and that’s- 

His train of thought gets derailed when he hears what sounds like footsteps, and time freezes as his muscles stiffen, turning to stone. 

Mikey’s arms tighten around him as he whispers a quiet, “what’s wrong?” against his ear. 

Ryan opens his mouth to say something, anything - doesn’t know how many seconds he has to _move,_ doesn’t know how many have passed - but nothing comes out. Nothing comes out, and an older woman he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before walks along the sidewalk in front of them. She’s the only thing in the world that’s moving. 

She doesn’t say anything, only gives them this _look,_ and Ryan can’t tell if that’s worse. 

It probably is, he thinks, watching her figure slowly fade into the distance until she follows the path behind a hill and she’s gone completely. If she’d said something, thrown any pointed words their way, he could have rationalised it somehow. 

_My brother had a bad day yesterday, and this calms him down. We’ve always been close. Mind your own fuckin’ business, maybe._  

But he doesn’t get that. Instead he just has the branded image of a look of clear distaste and unclear thought behind it. 

Mikey can’t even tell him what she was thinking. Mikey doesn’t know either. 

Instead of words he can explain away, he has a dirty look and a sinking feeling he can only describe as _wrong._  

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that someone can just fucking _look_ at them and make his stomach churn. It shouldn’t matter. She doesn’t know them, doesn’t understand how they work. She knows nothing, and it’s not her business to. How the hell would she know if it was ‘wrong’ that they’re sitting under a tree. 

That’s all they’re doing. Sitting under a tree. He loves his brother, and he brings a comfort with him that Ryan can’t find anywhere else, and they’re spending a cold morning in the park. That’s it, and what that random woman may think she knows doesn’t matter.

Except it does. It does when he’s had a bad feeling in his gut recently, like shark infested waters - a feeling that he finally got to fade away what feels like eons ago, but really it couldn’t have even been three minutes.

The sharks are back, and with the ghost of an expression that says _wrong,_ they try to fight their way onto his beach, and he won’t let them. Can’t let them. 

“I love you,” Mikey says quietly, holding him tighter with one arm, using his other hand to rub along Ryan’s arm to try to soothe him. “It’s alright.” 

“I love you too,” he replies. The words almost don’t feel like they’re his, like the air in his lungs didn’t shape them. 

He’s frantically putting up no trespassing signs and caution tape around one of his safest places.

Turning to look at his brother, all soft eyes and worried frown, he slowly puts down the tape. There isn’t anything to worry about. They’re good, he knows this. They’re _them_ and they’ll always have each other. Mikey’s the rock in his storm, and he’s Mikey’s. 

It’s an easy reminder - he has _this,_ and a love he can’t fathom having for anyone else.

Identifying it is hard, but really, he has nothing to compare it to, so it isn’t all that surprising.

What he knows is he has a warm beach and warmer hands, and a brother who cares about him more than anything, who knows him inside out, and who he’d crawl to the ends of the earth for. There aren’t really any words for that, he’s pretty sure. There’s love, yeah, but. 

This is beyond that, somehow. 

He smiles softly, a small thing, an _okay,_ an _I love you so much,_ a _the water’s nice, isn’t it?_

Mikey returns it, an _I’m glad,_ an _I love you so much,_ an _I’m right here with you._  

He is, he’s right here, and Ryan loves him. Beyond love, something hidden in waves the colour of Mikey’s eyes that crash against the walls of his stomach, or buried like treasure under the sands that are as rosy as the faint pink painted across Mikey’s cheeks.

Love and buried treasure he aches to find, wants to know what’s hidden even to himself under lock and key. The map lies somewhere in his brother’s face, he thinks. In the specks in his eyes, woven between his eyelashes, the _x_ hidden in the slight upturn of his lips. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks lightly, and it feels like the words are feathers brushing against his cheeks. 

“You,” he replies, as his mind splits between _I wish you didn’t have to ask_ and _you’re beautiful and I want to kiss you._  

And that’s. Oh. He can feel his face fall as he turns away and ice-cold realisation sets in.

Ryan’s heart sinks to the bottom of clear blue waters, coming to a screeching halt. The displacement fills his lungs, and he wonders how long you can go without breathing. How long can a heart be stopped before it can’t start up again? 

How fitting it is, that Mikey and their beach would be the end of him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, running a hand through his hair, and the water in his lungs boils from the heat of his blood rushing back into his face.

“I’m fine,” he struggles to get out, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Mikey _knows_ his smile is forced; that that was a bald-faced lie.

It’s even more apparent when his face falls, just slightly, and the small upturn of his lips turns sad. 

Ryan wants to kiss it away.

_Fuck,_ this is so much worse than he thought. He should have left that fucking chest where it was. 

Sometimes, things are buried, hidden away, for good reason. 

“Can we just go home?” he whispers, standing when Mikey nods. 

When his brother reaches for his hand as they walk, Ryan quickly stuffs it into his hoodie pocket, pretending it doesn’t feel like there are a thousand needles in there, pricking his skin until it bleeds through the fabric and spells out his truth in the stitching. 

He bites down on nothing and stares at the icy sidewalks as they go, keeping his breathing as even as he can while the winter chill solidifies the water in his lungs and paints the air that manages to escape them. 

He imagines the air betraying him, his breaths whispering words he shouldn’t say - things Mikey used to be able to hear, anyway. 

It’s easier just to go straight to his room when they get home, but it’s so much harder to warm up alone. 

It becomes all he can think about; a derailed train stumbling from one abandoned track to another and back again, looping in a circle with no destination. He’s left spiraling while leaving only destruction in his wake. 

He tries hanging out with other friends more often, tries to pretend it feels normal to be pressed against someone else’s side. 

No one else knows him, not like that. 

That’s far from a realisation, but the confirmation of it hurts. He’s spent his whole life feeling a love he just can’t fucking get anywhere else, and he can’t even _keep_ it. Shouldn’t want to. 

There has never been a time in his life where he’s felt uncomfortable around Mikey in any conceivable way, and yet, here he is, and it’s his own fucking fault.

Logically, there’s nothing to worry about. He can ignore the feelings, and they’ll go away, bury the chest again, and no one needs to know. Mikey, who was always known everything about him doesn’t know, and won’t, because he wears the whistle all the time, and Ryan certainly isn’t going to _tell_ him. So, there you have it, simple as that. 

Except it’s not. 

It’s not that simple at all, and he thinks about his pink beach and clear waters - _the real thing_ \- and feels those same waters churning when Mikey smiles at him at breakfast. The motion kicks up sand and shells and the water gets foggier as the skies go from soft pastels to a quickly darkening grey, and Ryan clenches his jaw as he stares at his scrambled eggs. Mikey holds his hand under the blanket when they sit on the couch to watch TV, and he can feel the winds pick up, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

The beach is getting colder, and he’s scared, and part of him thinks of the warmth and the _love_ that normally spreads through his chest when his brother laughs, and it just makes him colder all the same. 

He _shouldn’t_ feel like this. God, he really shouldn’t fucking think about his brother like that. 

So Mikey holds his hand, and as Ryan looks out at the darkening skies, he tries to remember what it was that his science teacher told him happens when a warm front meets a cold front. The salty wind stinging his eyes until they water doesn’t bode well. 

Standing up quietly and making a shitty excuse about not feeling well, Ryan hurries off to his room and locks the door before curling up in his bed. 

He wants to go back to warm summer mornings, but he ruined that for himself- for the both of them. 

Ignoring Mikey when he knocks lightly on his door, the small amount of hope he can scrape together goes towards hoping they’ll be able to have that again by the time summer rolls around. 

It seems unlikely, and more than anything, completely fucking unfair. 

It keeps up like this for what feels like forever as the days drag on - Ryan tries to pull away ever so slightly.

It’s hard. Really, it’s fucking impossible. 

It’s impossible because he’s trying to keep himself from getting hurt, but that’s like grabbing a sword by the blade and begging your skin not to split. But he holds on and ignores the blood on the hands that Mikey used to hold. Used to, and every time he remembers that, he grips even tighter. 

It’s impossible, because he’s trying to keep _Mikey_ from getting hurt, but he knows he’s pointed a loaded gun at his temple, knows he can feel the cold pressure there instead of the usual warmth that comes with Ryan. Every day is like playing a twisted round of Russian Roulette, and he doesn’t know how many trigger pulls he has left. 

Doesn’t know how many more sad looks he can take, how many little _clicks_ he can stand to have ringing in his ears, but it’s better this way. 

It’s better this way, he tells himself, blade in one hand and gun in the other while the train makes its rounds - its loud whistle a constant reminder of the metal hanging from Mikey’s neck. 

It’s better this way, he tells himself, his breath hitching in his throat with every pull, waiting for the click to turn into a bang. 

“Hey Ry,” Mikey greets softly when he walks past him in the morning, reaching out lightly to grab his wrist. 

Ryan flinches, and- _bang._  

His jaw clenches and he crosses his arms. “When are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Some dark voice in the back of his mind whispers that if he _really_ cared to know, he could easily find out. 

The train whistle sounds. 

“Nothing’s _wrong,_ Michael.”

“Right,” he says slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe what’s happening. Ryan can’t really believe it, either. “So you’re just gonna go with the _Michael_ thing and pretend that’s normal or whatever.” 

“It’s your name,” Ryan huffs, crossing his arms and pressing his back against the wall. “What the fuck else am I supposed to call you? Champ? Big bro-” he reaches out and lightly punches Mikey’s shoulder “-broski?” 

His voice breaks when he asks, “why won’t you talk to me?” 

The train whistle sounds. 

Ryan can’t even hear himself respond, “if I’m not talking to you, then what am I doing right now?” 

“Being a fucking piece of shit,” Mikey laughs bitterly as tears well up in his eyes. “But hey, happy birthday to me, right?” 

His heart sinks to the bottom of the sea again, and the waters get caught up in his throat instead of his lungs, churning and churning and turning to stone. 

He forgot. 

He fucking forgot. 

He _never_ forgets Mikey. 

He grips the sword even tighter. 

“Mikey, I-”

“No, whatever. I’m heading out anyway. Let me know when you’re done with-” he gestures vaguely at Ryan “-whatever this is.” Turning on a dime, he leaves with a wave and a barbed statement, the words dripping with poison. “Later, _Champ.”_  

The thing about Russian Roulette is the gun is supposed to be pointed at your own head. 

The bullet would taste better than the acid burning in his mouth. 

He’s played the game all wrong, and now he pays the price. Isn’t that just the story of his life, though? 

Isn’t that exactly how they got here? 

The train whistle sounds, and it’s laughing at him. 

What’s worse, he notices days later, is there’s no easy way to fix this. He can’t go back to the way things were - can’t throw down the sword and pretend there isn’t a scar on his hand. Can’t bury the gun and forget about the now empty chamber. 

Can’t let Mikey hold him while he wants more. 

Can’t keep wanting more. 

Can’t. 

He also can’t keep feeling Mikey’s eyes on him - something that should feel like second nature - not when it feels less like laying in a ray of sun and more like standing below the surface of a frozen over lake, watching people skate across it, their blades carving words into the ice and his brain. 

Concern. 

Hurt. 

_Please._  

There aren’t any easy answers. Frankly, it doesn’t feel like there are _any_ answers. Period. End of story. 

He made this bed, and now he has to lie in it; cold and alone in a frozen landscape while his warm beach is on the other side of some drywall. 

He doesn’t deserve pink sands and clear waters, anyway. 

The straw that breaks his back ends up coming with an early morning in late spring. It’s not unusual for him to be awake at this hour, he’s been losing sleep since that day in the park - the only difference lies in how he spends the morning, electing to go sit on the porch and soak in the damp air of dawn instead of tossing and turning in bed.

It’s peaceful, and it feels like it’s finally easier to breathe. It feels like maybe there’s water under this bridge, and he’s getting better. It’s going away, and he’ll be able to fix everything with his brother, and- 

The sun slowly rises over the horizon, painting the clouds pink against the pale blue sky.

It’s like he’s standing on the beach again, except the tide takes his feet out from underneath him, and it’s nearly impossible to keep his chin above the waves. 

The riptide carries him back into the house, and it doesn’t feel like his feet are even touching the ground as he walks silently into Mikey’s room, shutting the door behind him. 

Mikey doesn’t wake up until Ryan sits at the foot of his bed and rests his hand on the ankle that’s sticking out from under the comforter.

“Ryno?” 

He smiles sadly, the nickname sounding next to unknown coming from Mikey - only used to hearing that one from Matt and a handful of friends. 

“Hey, Mike.” 

“Is everything okay?” he sits up slowly, carefully leaving the leg Ryan’s touching as still as he can. “What time is it?”

“Early, sorry,” he apologises, slowly pulling his hand back. He doesn’t miss the way Mikey bites his lip the moment the contact is lost. 

“Are you okay?” he repeats. 

Ryan is almost tired of his brother asking that. No, scratch that, he’s _really_ tired of his brother asking that. Tired of _needing_ to be asked that, of something being wrong, but mostly, of Mikey not just _knowing._

But he won’t hold that against him. Can’t. It’s not his fault, and it’s better for him this way - especially when, in the end, it’s far better for both of them that he _doesn’t_ know what’s wrong. 

“Not really,” he looks down at his hands and clenches his jaw a few times before sighing. “I’m sorry.” 

Confusion paints itself across the features Ryan can see out of the corner of his eye, and Mikey reaches out to him, but holds his hand just short of where his fingertips would brush against his bicep. “Don’t be.” 

_“Don’t be?”_ he parrots, incredulous. And to think Mikey had called _him_ quick to forgive what feels like ages ago now. “Don’t say that.” 

“If something’s wrong, then-” 

“It’s _my_ fault, alright? Don’t be sorry? Because _I_ fucked up? That’s not how it works.” 

Mikey takes his hand back, and Ryan’s heart is racing, running circles around his head until it spins. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. 

Taking a deep breath, he lets his shoulders fall, just trying to make himself slightly less tense. 

“I’m sorry. I’m- I dunno. Something’s wrong with me-” inhaling sharply, he reminds himself to tread lightly around that, around everything “-and I don’t wanna upset you.” 

“You sound like me, Ry.” 

_Don’t say that. Please don’t say that._ “This isn’t the same thing.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I-” he finally looks over at his brother again “-my problem is my fault, okay? And yours isn’t. Wasn’t. It’s not the same thing at all. And you _needed_ space, but I just- I don’t know. I forgot your fucking birthday.” 

Tears start spilling out of the corner of his eyes, and Mikey reaches over and lightly wipes one off his cheek.

“I know what it’s like to feel lost, or like, lose track of time and everything else or whatever-” 

“You don’t know what this feels like at all.” 

That’s the problem. Bottom line. Not even because of the whistle, and while that’s part of what started Ryan’s little spiral, the _real_ truth is Mikey doesn’t know what it’s like to stand at the waterline on a pink beach and see his eyes in the blue waters. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone hold onto you like they need you, when really you need _them_ and _more._ He doesn’t know.

He loves Ryan, sure, but he doesn’t know what it feels like to _be_ Ryan. To love too fucking much.

“You won’t let me. You always just said you were fine.” 

“People who say they’re fine are never fine, Mikey.” 

“Don’t you think I fucking know that? Are you kidding me? I’ve had to hear ‘I’m fine’ from people that were on the brink of a breakdown and then _feel their breakdown_ for fucking years. I’ve lived everyone’s ‘I’m fine,’ I don’t need to be told what the words mean.” 

“What if I just didn’t want to tell you what was wrong?” The words are sour as they leave his mouth, quieter than he’d have thought. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to pretend you’re not simply a hurting child when, at the end of the day, that’s all you really are. 

“You’ve never had a problem with that before.” 

“I’ve ever had the option before.” He shakes his head and it just makes the tears spill over faster. “It’s not a choice I had and now-” he can’t take his eyes off Mikey’s face as his words leave his mouth like knives, tasting the steel on his tongue before they’re gone and all that’s left is the copper tang of blood from the cuts they leave behind “-maybe I’ve grown up. Maybe I don’t need someone to hold my fucking hand all the time. I’m not six anymore.” 

Mikey’s face turns to stone, and Ryan looks down, and there’s no water under this bridge at all. In fact, it’s crumbling, and Mikey is on the far side, and he’s right in the middle, a lit match in his hand. 

“Go away.” 

“What?” 

“Get out of my fucking room. Don’t think I have to hold your hand and show you where the door is.” 

“Mikey-” 

_“Go,”_ he half-shouts, and Ryan’s fairly certain the only reason he didn’t yell is because of the time of day and nothing more. 

The sound makes him jump, and he drops the match, not really able to process what’s happened until everything around him goes up in flames as he walks back to his room, the heat burning his skin as the bridge collapses behind him; Mikey left on the other side. 

He feels like a ghost as he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. The reds and yellows of the flames cast shadows across it, a projector, a movie retelling all that has happened. He watches as he knocks over a tower of wooden blocks, as Mikey cries behind a bench, a closed door, a Christmas tree and a shiny whistle, a stranger in the park, a burning bridge - he watches and he watches and the smoke fills the air and poisons his lungs. 

There’s no fire department to fix a fire like this. No number he can call. The flames spread out of their rooms, into the living room and the basement, out of the house and into the yard, the garden. 

Mikey doesn’t talk to him. Doesn’t look at him most days. He knows everyone notices - wildfire is hard to miss, after all - but no one says anything. He prefers it that way. Tries not to think about fucking up an apology so badly that he’s ruined everything. 

Tries not to think about the knives that left his mouth, the taste of copper, the sight of his brother, stone cold in the face of burning flames. A statue, undeterred. 

He waits for the flames to get to the beach, to burn the shoreline and turn the pink beach into grey dust, to turn the pink and blue sky to black as it fills with heavy smoke. 

Hell, he fucking _hopes_ they will. If the beach burns up, so do the feelings, the problems. If he’d never had them, never looked at Mikey with more longing than one should, this wouldn’t have happened. He’d get to keep his beach, and warm hugs, and a hand in his. Most importantly, he’d get to keep his brother. 

But he had them, _has_ them, and nothing else.

The beach doesn’t burn. The flames die out eventually, leaving smoldering ember behind, and Ryan still has the beach and the waves of too-strong feelings, and still no Mikey. 

Words he didn’t mean, words he’d _never_ mean, destroyed everything. He destroyed everything.

It takes a while - far fucking longer than he’d like it to - for things to get back to any semblance of normal. 

He had a bed of roses, ones he’d tended to for so many years, and he let them get eaten up by the flames he’s sparked; now he’s left tending to the few spindly weeds that have managed to sprout through the ash. He has a handful of dandelions, but he doesn’t know how to take care of them - doesn’t know how much water they need, how much _care,_ because these aren’t his roses. This isn’t his rosebed, and this isn’t the love that goes into it. 

Sometimes, something as slight as joking with hesitant smiles is as risky as watering the weeds without knowing what’s in the can - water or gasoline. Sometimes, the ashes are still too hot in some places, orange embers _nearly_ resembling the red of what was - a harsh reminder of what was there, of what he did. What he lost and can’t have. 

Sometimes, one of the weeds go up in flames. Sometimes, the water is gasoline. 

But he’s trying. He’s doing his best with what he has, knowing it’s pretty much impossible to go back to what was. 

Even if the ashes cleared, new seeds planted and carefully watered _just so,_ he ruined the soil. A new plant can grow, maybe, a tougher one, but the roses are gone. 

They were so fucking beautiful, and as much as he learns to appreciate the dandelions as their numbers steadily grow, it’s not the same. 

As undesirable as people may find them, there’s hope in weeds. A certain beauty that’s easier to admire when you focus on what’s there instead of what’s not. There’s warmth in the little yellow petals, like tiny suns reaching up for the one that keeps them alive. It’s a pleasant colour, one that makes it easier to look positively at what he has. Because he has this, has _something_ when he thought he’d be left with nothing, and it’s relief that fills his lungs with the oxygen they make. 

There’s hope in weeds, in the same attributes that cause most to be endlessly annoyed by them. They’re persistent; strong. Where there appears to be no possible way for anything to grow, it’s these little plants that find a way. They sprout up through cracks in cement, taking back bits of nature that humans stole only to leave behind, finding their way into the floorboards of abandoned buildings, soon joined by the ivy that weaves its way through unattended fences like a quilt of what was. In this way, they make Ryan think of dedication, of commitment. Rip out as many as you want, use as many chemicals as you want, they’ll be back. They’ll be back, and they’ll spread, dedicated to surviving to keep their very nature alive. 

There’s hope in weeds that it seems only children can see, hope that they somehow lose as they age. When the weather cools and plants start withering away, the sunny yellow of the flowers goes with the rest of them, but in their place, they leave behind little clouds. A child picks them and makes a wish, lets the breeze carry away their desires. A child sees them, and they see the seeds of their dreams. 

An adult sees them, and they see the seeds of a lawn full of weed killer once spring rolls around again. 

As time passes, winds take the ashes with them, and the soil starts to clear up. The dandelions spread, and a barren, burning plot of land turns into a soft bed of bright yellows. The yellows fade and bring a puffy cloud made of promises of the future, of hopes and maybes and what ifs instead of droplets of water. And the cloud too blows away, such is the nature of things, but with every cloud that leaves, more suns and eventually a bigger cloud takes its place. 

A couple years pass, and the cycle continues until what’s left of the ash is covered completely, the ambers cooled, and the tap no longer runs the risk of dispensing ethanol. It’s not his pretty red roses, but it took more work, more time. It’s something to be proud of. 

Sure, the leaves can be sharp, and he can get caught off guard and end up with pricked fingertips, but the roses had _thorns._ In a way, this is better. They’re not as sharp, the cuts not as deep. 

But then, there’s much less to lose now. 

There’s being complicit in complacency, he knows, of accepting what _is,_ ignoring what was, and simply not working towards what _could be._ That’s not what this is, not really.

He misses his roses and the thorns that came with them, but desolate destruction slowly repaired to something vibrant and alive again is more than he could have asked for back when he first dropped that match and let the flames lick at his ankles. He’s already past where he thought ‘could be’ lied, so he doesn’t even know what’s possible moving forward. 

The one thing he does know is the roses are gone, and they can’t come back, burned up with the bridge of wrongful desires. 

That isn’t to say the foundations of the bridge aren’t still there - steel beams uncovered in the places they were put together, tangled in the roots of a tree in the park, melted down and reshaped into the springs under Mikey’s bed, and Ryan’s, and the couch. 

That isn’t to say the shadows of the roses faded, their charred outline scarring the fence and grass around where they once flourished. No amount of scrubbing can get it to clear up. 

They’re good now, no longer acting like strangers, and sometimes he gets little glimpses of what they had. Sometimes, it’s like they’ve forgotten the fires for a moment. Mikey will run a hand through his hair as they watch TV, turning to stone as it hits him that they don’t do this anymore. It shouldn’t be a surprise, shouldn’t be so easily forgotten, but it is. 

Ryan holds onto Mikey’s hand, and it takes a moment before they hurriedly untangle their fingers, like they don’t want to upset the balance of everything or whatever. 

It’s fucked up. It’s fucked up because it isn’t something they should forget but they do, and it’s not hard to explain why it is. Neither of them put words to it, but he has no doubt that Mikey knows it as well. 

This ‘balance’ is bullshit, it’s all bullshit, and Mikey’s hand in his, Mikey’s arm around his shoulder, Mikey’s nose against his jaw - that’s how things were for good reason. It’s second nature, almost. 

For a split second, when they act on instinct before realisation and fear set in, Ryan can feel gentle waves rolling in his stomach, can see the remains of the want and the shadows of the love, and he knows it’s not over. 

It’s not over, and it won’t be. 

The soil changed, and the roses can’t come back. He and Mikey changed, and the feelings shouldn’t come back. 

Shouldn’t have started. 

Shouldn’t have _stayed._  

But they did, and he gets tiny moments where he can pretend that maybe it would have been okay if he’d never struck a match, if he’d given Mikey some of the roses and waded with him in the waters. 

But he didn’t do those things, and now he can’t, and the cold that follows the startled loss of contact is a reminder of just that. 

Dandelions and gentle waves at a nearly abandoned beach are better than nothing, in the end. 

Recently he hasn’t been sleeping well again, and it isn’t bad enough that he’s too worried about it, but it’s just kind of the worst when it takes five hours before he can finally sleep, and then he has to get up for school just a few short hours after that. It’s been wearing him down, and you’d think that the resulting exhaustion would make it easier to sleep, but no dice. 

The clock hits three, and he has to be up in three hours, and it doesn’t even feel like he’s tired - mostly hungry. Deciding that, at this point, it really doesn’t matter whether or not he sleeps, he goes downstairs to grab a granola bar to hold himself over until breakfast. 

It isn’t the first time he’s done this in the past few weeks alone, nor is it likely to be the last, but never once has anyone noticed. It’s not really a big deal. 

Well, there’s a first time for everything.

“Hey,” Mikey says quietly from behind him, and Ryan nearly jumps out of his skin, “why are you awake?”

He turns around, leaning back against the counter and shrugs. “Hungry.” 

“At three in the morning?” Mikey asks and walks over so he’s standing right in front of Ryan, not even a half step from being pressed up against him. 

He’s tiptoeing on the invisible line they no longer cross, and he pointedly doesn’t think about it, falling back into old habits. Turns out that was a good call, he realises, noticing he can’t see the chain where the slight light is coming in from the window, landing on the side of Mikey’s face. Invisible line forgotten, Ryan presses the palm of his hand against the centre of his chest where the whistle should be, and isn’t. Neither of them move when he asks, “where is it?” 

Mikey puts one hand on top of his and shrugs with one shoulder. Maybe the late hour has blurred chalk lines, or covered memories of fires with fog. “I take it off at night sometimes.” 

Sure, nights are probably quieter, but he can’t imagine why he’d want to go through that again when it was so bad, when it’s been so long. 

“I miss you,” he answers, smiling sadly. 

Mikey doesn’t even have to hear his thoughts on this one, because the first thing that leaves his mouth happened before he even thought it in the first place. 

“I live here?” 

“No,” he taps the side of Ryan’s head. “You.” 

He draws a blank at that, mostly drawing up concern that Mikey knows how he’s been struggling to sleep, and based on the passing look on his face after that thought, he does. “Oh.” 

“You don’t-” he squeezes the hand that’s still under his “-think about me anymore.” 

It feels a little like he’s been stabbed in the chest, because of fucking course he thinks about Mikey. Even after everything, he still thinks about him too much. But it’s for the best he hasn’t heard any of that. Hell, he hadn’t even thought that it would be a problem anymore. 

“What does that mean?” he asks softly, squeezing Ryan’s hand a little tighter. 

He really doesn’t know what’s going on. “What does what mean.” 

“Whatever you were just thinking about. I haven’t heard what?” 

All the air leaves his lungs, and he shoves Mikey with the hand on his chest, pulling it back sharply. “Put the fucking whistle back on.” 

He tries not to let the hurt on his brother’s face get to him as he storms off, forcing his thoughts to stay as angry as he could manage to mask the hurt he’ll have to address at some point. Both his and Mikey’s. 

Trusting that he isn’t lying, the moment Mikey texts him _you can stop being pissed now I’m wearing it,_ Ryan deflates, curling up in a ball with his back against the headboard. 

He shouldn’t have done that. _God,_ he shouldn’t have done that.

All the hard work to get back to even amicable grounds likely ruined, just like that. He’s just never going to not fuck everything up. 

He doesn’t even try to stop himself from crying, even though he knows Mikey can probably hear it. 

Never once has he been like this about the _whistle._ Yeah, he’s very notably been a dick, but it was never outwardly at Mikey and his ability to hear his thoughts. He’s never gotten angry at him for something he can’t help. Never… any of that. It sucks, and the look on Mikey’s face feels like it burns its way into the back of his mind somewhere, joining the gallery of other times Ryan has watched his heart break at his own hands. 

Once again, it’s not the same after that. Nothing is. 

A familiar sad song stuck on a loop once again, Mikey starts to give him the cold shoulder - this time being more careful about it so it would go unnoticed to anyone but them. It’s almost worse like this, in a way. 

It takes a while for him to get past what he said that night, and think about what it was that _Mikey_ had said. 

He misses him. His thoughts, the little things that were just for him. All this time, as Ryan tended to little yellow flowers and dreamed of roses, Mikey longed for _before_ too. It makes sense, he supposes, the moments with boundaries forgotten had to have something behind them.

It makes him wonder if they could have had it, if he could just bury his feelings - or his fear of them.

And now, while he said he misses him, there’s a chance Ryan shaped that into _missed_ with another round of harsh words. 

He can’t take it anymore, the being ignored and avoided, the days where it feels like Mikey doesn’t even want to look at him. He’d really fucked up again and ruined all progress, and they’re both still aching, and he needs to _actually_ fix it. Bottom line. 

The moment it’s just the two of them at home and he sees Mikey sitting in the living room, Ryan takes a deep breath and figures it’s now or never. 

Now, straddling his lap was probably not the best call, but it’ll at least make it harder to brush off the conversation. It _does_ make Mikey finally look at him again, and he- fuck. He missed that more than he’d realised - doesn’t even know when the last time he’d been able to look at him like this was. 

He pulls himself away from the eye contact to stare down at the little bit of chain poking out from the collar of his shirt. Swallowing, he runs a finger along it until it rests on top of where he can feel the whistle under the soft fabric. 

“I miss you too,” he looks back up at Mikey, who hasn’t moved an inch, and he feels a little bit like his eyes might start to water. “So much.” 

“You never heard me, Ry,” he says, and it sounds sad, and Ryan hates it. Hates that he did this to him, _to them._  

Mikey has to know that isn’t what he meant, but he goes with that anyway. “I didn’t have to. I knew you were there.” 

“How could you know that?” 

“Are you kidding?” he laughs lightly, flattening his hand over the whistle. “You always were.” 

“But-” 

“And I never had to hear you to know that.” At this point, the words are pouring out of him before he even gets to think them over, years of time and affection lost spilling over at last. “I didn’t. Because when we got home from school, and you didn’t say anything and we just sad there holding hands I- I knew you were listening. On days that were so bad you’d hug me so tight I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe-” Mikey laughs lightly at that “-I could always tell you needed a familiar voice to drown out the other ones.” 

“Ryan-” 

“I could tell you were always there, because you were. Even during those rare times that you _weren’t_ right next to me - I mean, even if you weren’t actually listening, I- you were all I thought about. You were always there in that way, at least. And I miss that. I miss you. I still don’t know what to think about sometimes, because my default setting is and will always be you.”

Mikey doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at him with tears in his eyes. It’s all too familiar when he wraps his arms around Ryan and holds on so tightly it’s hard to breathe - it feels like coming home. Burying his face in the side of his neck, the chain presses against his cheek, and he really, really hates that thing sometimes. 

He’s not even sure how long they sit like that - not long enough, but he isn’t sure forever would have been long enough to make up for what they’ve lost - but when they let go, Mikey runs his hand through his hair and Ryan leans slightly into the touch. Sue him, he missed _that_ too. 

“What if,” he says softly, “I just don’t wear it all the time.” 

He could never forget how hard it was on him and feels selfish for even wanting that. “Mikey-”

“I don’t mean it like that, whatever you’re thinking.” It warms something somewhere in his chest that, even after all these years, Mikey still knows him better than anyone. “I just mean, I dunno. Some nights I can take it off for a little while?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, “that works.” As long as he knows when it happens, of course. 

Truthfully, he thought they’d have a schedule or some shit. Like, “I’ll take it off Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday nights” or something. Or maybe Mikey would text him that he’d be doing it, or- 

What he didn’t expect, and really should have, was Mikey just coming into his room. 

Looking up from his phone, expecting it to have been his mother, he finally feels a warm happiness that’s been absent for too long spread from his chest the moment he sees Mikey, whistle in hand. 

It’s easy as ever to get back on the bike. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t think the exact words _I missed you,_ but he feels it so strongly it almost feels like it’s coming directly from the beat of his heart, the light thuds forming the words he doesn’t need to say. 

Whispered _I miss you_ and _I love you_ and _I’m so happy you’re here_ run through his veins and it feels like he’s vibrating with it. 

God this is stupid.

“Shut up,” Mikey shuts the door and walks over to Ryan’s bed, sitting down next to him. “You’re not stupid.” 

“I didn’t say _I_ was stupid, just,” he gestures aimlessly, struggling to find the right word. 

“The feelings?” 

“The feelings.”

Mikey just smiles at him and gently lifts Ryan’s hand, pressing it to his chest over his own heart. “You can’t feel it just right, but if _you’re_ stupid, then I must be, like, a fucking idiot.” 

“We knew that,” he teases, but Mikey can feel the fondness that the words mask anyway. 

He rolls his eyes and sets the whistle down on the mattress next to him, and Ryan eyes it warily. 

“You didn’t have to bring it with you.” 

Moving the hand off his chest so he can tangle their fingers together - another small affection that he’s missed so much - Mikey stares down at them instead of looking directly at him. “In case you change your mind. Then it’s right there and I can leave.” 

“Mikey…” he says slowly, and he hates that he thinks he has to do that. Squeezing the hand in his lightly, he can’t find the right words. He doesn’t think he’ll able to forgive himself for the outburst, or any of his outbursts for that matter, that have made things so difficult, that made him feel like it’ll be that easy for Ryan to get upset with him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Which one? They all were, Mikey.” 

“This time I was overstepping, I just-” he looks back up at him, the smile on his face a little too sad “-I was having one of the days where everything was too quiet so I had to take it off, and then you were still awake and I got worried about you. I dunno. Doesn’t make it okay.” 

He hadn’t thought about it like that. He’d known that Mikey knew about the sleeping issue, but for some reason it didn’t even occur to him that concern might be the reason why. Part of him feels a little worse for the way he reacted now, but then again, Mikey is also partially right in that it was maybe a little much. 

The thing about that that really got his attention was _‘one of those days where everything was too quiet.’_ That’s a new one. Obviously there were days that were too loud, but he’d never been told about too quiet.

“It isn’t new,” Mikey says, barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”

“What?” 

Suddenly, Ryan feels too small. 

Mikey lets go of his hand and shifts so he can pull him back against his chest, wrapping his arm around his waist. “It’s not new-” he noses at Ryan’s jaw, and he briefly feels like he’s fourteen again “-I’ve had it for years. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s often enough.”

He feels his heart break a little, and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly why that is. There’s aching that his brother still has bad days, even if they are a different brand of bad, and there’s hurt that he didn’t know. That Mikey never told him about them when he was there for everything else.

Even if they started after things fell apart, he- Mikey had to know Ryan would be there for him. He couldn’t have possibly pushed him away _that_ far, right? 

“Ryan,” he sighs, resting his head on his shoulder. “Stop with that. They started right away. That’s not why I never told you - of course I trust you.”

After everything, he shouldn’t. But _before_ it? 

“Then why,” he barely breathes out, trying his hardest to keep his voice even. 

All he’d ever wanted was to help. 

“That’s why.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he shakes his head. “That’s a reason _to_ tell me.” 

Mikey lifts his head back up and pulls Ryan even closer, holding on a little tighter. “You know I love you,” he says into his hair. 

Obviously he knows that. Well, knew that.

“Ryan, stop. Please. I never, not once, stopped loving you.”

That’s more than he deserves. That’s more than he deserves, even if he can’t shake the hurt of Mikey keeping something from him when they were still okay. 

“You can’t-” he takes a deep breath “-you can’t save me, Ry bread.”

He doesn’t even get to fully wonder _what the fuck does that mean_ before Mikey continues.

“There isn’t a balance. Hearing and feeling everything at once is so overwhelming, and it’s too loud, and you stopped that. Fuck, you’ll never know just how grateful I am for that escape. 

“The thing is, I’m so used to all those other voices in my head that sometimes it’s too quiet when it’s just me. I feel like I’m underwater, lost and alone in a sea of silence, and you don’t- you can’t save me from both. I know you, and I know- _knew_ how your head works probably better than I did my own. If I told you about those right after you gave me the whistle, and there were a _lot_ at first, you would have blamed yourself.”

He remembers the days Mikey hid away, or went blank for worryingly long, and they make more sense, in retrospect. He didn’t just stop needing him after all. 

“No I wouldn’t have,” his mouth says, but he can’t help but feel the exact guilt Mikey was talking about. 

“I’d rather have a few quiet days than three hundred that make me nauseous with all the noise.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, putting his hand on one of Mikey’s wrists that are pressing into his chest. He doesn’t deserve any of this. It isn’t fair.

“It’s okay.” 

“No it isn’t-” 

“If I weren’t like this,” Mikey whispers softly enough that it’s hard to hear, “I wouldn’t have you. So it’s worth it.”

“Pretty sure you’d still have me,” he laughs lightly. “I’d definitely still live here.” 

“Yeah, you’d be _here,_ but we wouldn’t- not like this. Not like this.” 

Ryan kind of knows what he means, because Mikey wouldn’t know him the way he does, and he can’t imagine they’d be nearly as close without it. It’s weird to imagine how different the love he’d have felt growing up if Mikey couldn’t ever stand with him at the beach. 

He also kind of doesn’t know what he means, because _like this_ is so new. Well, kind of. It’s like a soda rebranding, labelling each bottle _new look, same great taste._ He doesn’t know where they stand right now, but everything about Mikey wrapped around him feels right, like they’ve picked up right where they left off. 

All that said, _not like this_ carries a lot of weight to it, and he can’t place what it is. Doesn’t try to, and Mikey doesn’t clarify. 

More nights than not he will come into Ryan’s room and just sit with him. Some days they just hold onto each other and say nothing, Ryan just thinking about Mikey, and how he’s warm where they’re pressed together, or how his hands still fit in his just right, or, once, that he _definitely_ used his shampoo, and it was weird that he didn’t smell like _Mikey._ Mikey had laughed at that. 

He’d never realised it’d be so easy to fall into old habits - so seamless, so _natural._  

Sometimes they’ll watch a movie, which always ends up being Ryan sitting up with the laptop in his lap while Mikey lays on his stomach, chin resting on crossed forearms while he watches Ryan instead of whatever’s on. He says he likes them better with his commentary, so there’s no need to actually see what’s happening. He’s fucking weird, but it reminds Ryan of the dusty array of vinyls in his head that Mikey used to love to hear through him. So yeah, he’s weird, but Ry knows he wouldn’t have it any other way as he plays with his brother’s hair absently. 

There are the days where they just sit there and talk for hours, well, Mikey does. Ryan mostly just thinks. Regardless, these evenings are always nice, and sometimes pretty dumb fun. Like the time Mikey told Ryan to try to guess what he was thinking, shooting down every single thing Ryan thought to guess before it even left his mouth. 

_“You’re cheating, this isn’t fair.”_  

_“No, it’d be cheating if I was guessing what you were thinking. This is perfectly fair.”_  

They’ve accidentally fallen asleep too many times to count, and usually Ryan wakes up to find that Mikey had left at some point, but the rare mornings where they wake up still tangled together are his favourite. He’s missed the warmth that comes with being together at dawn. Often when it happens, he can almost smell the saltwater. 

Sometimes he wonders if Mikey stays on purpose. Not that he’s complaining. 

It’s good for both of them, he thinks. Mikey doesn’t have to have radio silence every second of every day, instead getting a little bit of familiar comfort for a few hours nearly every night now. And Ryan? Well, Ryan gets Mikey again. That’s more than enough for him. 

He’s not an idiot - not completely. Over the past few months of doing this he’s digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole he’d tried to hard to fill in, and it’s only getting harder ro squash down the feelings that have been resting below the surface for years now. He makes it worse every night he spends cuddled up with Mikey in a thousand different ways. 

It’s been a balancing game, constantly playing with the scales of fate as he stops trying to mask the feelings fully. He lets Mikey feel the warmth and the love deeper than the ocean its waves come from. In that way, they really are back to where they started, and Mikey definitely doesn’t mind that he lets him feel these things again. 

Once, he told Ryan it almost feels like he’s holding the sun in his hands every night. That it sets for the world so he can hold onto it and keep all of its warmth for himself, just for a few hours. 

He didn’t have any words for that, but he didn’t need them. Never needs them.

So no, he can’t make himself stop feeling these things, doesn’t even want to anymore, but what he _does_ keep a close eye on is what he lets form itself into actual thought. It’s hard, it’s so fucking hard, because he _wants,_ and he’s sure his brother knows that, even if he doesn’t know exactly what it is that he wants. 

It’s important to keep it that way if he wants to keep doing this, if he doesn’t want to lose Mikey again. 

So he lets himself think these things during the day, lets the want form itself into words that pull at his heart in a way that slightly too painful so they can’t escape at night when he wraps them up and buries them under the sand. 

It’s hard to want all the time, to think it only sometimes, to feel it only when he can’t think it. It’s like he’s tearing himself in two and stitching himself back together when he needs to pretend he’s whole, needs to pretend there’s nothing more to it- to him. 

It works for a while, longer than he would have thought it would. But ultimately, Mikey sees the seams anyway.

It’s been one of their quieter nights, just enjoying each other’s presence, and once it gets cold enough that they can’t even keep themselves warm, they crawl under the comforter. Instead of immediately holding onto the other again, they just lie on their sides, facing each other. 

He can’t help but wonder if Mikey’s going to stay here tonight, silently hoping he will. That’s nothing new, of course. 

“Sure, Ry bread.” 

He’s a little embarrassed, but the heat in his cheeks isn’t too bad a feeling when it always makes Mikey smile like that. 

Eye contact is weird outside of conversations. Like, if you’re not talking to a person and they’re just looking into your eyes, it feels like they know too much, but he could get lost in Mikey’s forever and be fine with it. Maybe it’s just because he already knows everything; there’s nothing more to learn. 

He laughs lightly, “yeah, maybe.” 

“They’re pretty, you know?” 

“So you’ve said.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes, because that’s definitely the first time he’s _said_ it, but he’s also absolutely thought it more times than he’d care to keep track of. 

The pale moonlight coming in from between the curtains he didn’t bother closing paints itself across Mikey’s features, and it’s- he doesn’t even know. It reminds him of the night in the kitchen nearly a year ago now, of misunderstandings and broken hearts and a long path a broken glass that ultimately brought them here. He lets this moment replace the other one. 

Mikey is still moonlight, soft shadows and a softer expression, but instead of ache and tears and the ghost of the pressure from pushing him away haunting his hand, there’s warm blankets and blue eyes and more love than he knows what to do with. 

He takes one of Ryan’s hands lightly and holds it against his chest, and the lingering ghost gives way to a beating heart. 

“I wish I knew what you’re thinking,” he says softly. 

Letting go of Ryan’s hand, he brushes a piece of hair out of his face, letting his hand linger there. “You’re perfect,” he replies after a moment. 

“Funny.” 

“You are,” he lightly drags his fingers across his cheek until they’re resting under his chin, and Ryan shivers. “You’re you.” 

“I sure am.”

“Well, I like _you._ So,” he shrugs slightly, “there.” 

“Eloquent,” he deadpans in spite of the lump forming in his throat. 

“Always.” 

It’s par for the course, really, how much fucking love he feels in every inch of his body, the strong waves pushing against his skin until it feels like he could burst with it. He’s nearly ready to cry, just to let some of it out because there’s nowhere else for it to go. 

The waves push and push, and the stitching Ryan has worked so hard on can’t hold them back any longer - tearing open to finally let the words mix with the feelings in a way he never wanted them to be capable of doing. He’s overwhelmed, and Mikey looks a little confused, because there’s so many thoughts that it’s incoherent to even Ryan.

“Are you okay?” Mikey asks softly, concern lacing the edges of his words as he cups his cheek. 

His thoughts settle down, focusing mostly on the question and the worried set of his mouth and the moonlight and his hands against his face and okay, maybe his thoughts haven’t settled down. 

More than anything, he just really, _really_ fucking wants to kiss him. 

That’s the thought that rings through the rest of the white noise, Ryan can tell, based on the look on his face alone.

Shoving at Mikey’s chest again, his heart starts beating too quickly, and he can’t breathe, and his tropical waves of love have been washed away with ice cold horror; regret is sparking dangerously at its edges, exposed wires and exposed thoughts, ice cold waters and too hot tears. 

It feels like he’s being electrocuted. 

“Go,” he pushes again, “go away. Put it back on. Go. Please.” 

Mikey slides away slowly, looking a mix between hurt and worried, and Ryan can’t look at him anymore. 

“Can you please just get the _fuck_ out.” 

He doesn’t say anything more, just goes, and Ryan is left there to drown in the waves of the waters he’d turned dark on his own, worsening it for himself as he cries. 

He knew he’d fuck this up again. He knew it. He always does. 

He looks at the light cast on the mattress next to him, just staring at it until his lungs turn to stone. That only makes him feel heavier as he gets up to close the curtains. 

Moonlight can get fucked. 

None of this is surprising - not that he ruined everything, not that he’s given himself a harsh reminder that he shouldn’t fucking feel like this about his brother. 

Mikey has been Ryan’s whole world his entire life, and he let himself get too close to what he wants. But he couldn’t let himself have it, not when they were younger, not now. He _shouldn’t_ let himself have it. 

Well, now there’s really no chance in hell of anything happening anyway, so what’s it goddamn matter.

He wakes up to an empty bed and tries not to think about how it wasn’t supposed to be. _Sure, Ry bread._

When he goes downstairs for breakfast, Mikey has the whistle on the outside of his shirt. He doesn’t think about what that means, doesn’t think about how it’s pointedly telling Ryan he’s not listening. Or that he doesn’t want to. Or that he’s upset. Or whatever the fuck it’s supposed to mean. 

He’s not used to feeling so ice cold. Even in the past few lonelier years, he burned hot with the fire he’d caused. Now, here he is, sitting right next to his best friend in the fucking world, the one person who knows him better than anyone possibly could, the one person he _trusts_ to know that much, and he feels like he’s been locked in a freezer. 

He tries not to cry into his cereal. 

Some part of him hopes Mikey will come into his room that night, that history won’t repeat itself and they can just pretend it didn’t happen, and Ryan can hold on tightly to whatever piece of him he can manage and learn how to be warm again. 

He doesn’t sleep, just watching his door for hours, feeling more and more hollow as the night goes on. It’s like with every passing second, a piece of him decides it isn’t worth it and leaves him behind. 

Morning comes, and it’s time to get ready, and he’s as fragile as the eggs he cracks into a pan that burns his palm. The heat is almost welcome.

After a week of that, he’s accepted that he’s really lost it this time. He no longer gets to sit with his back against Mikey’s chest, playing with his fingers and thinking about nothing at all, feeling peace like a gentle breeze on their beach that makes it easier to breathe. He’s accepted that he doesn’t get Mikey laying half on top of him, propped up on his elbows, telling him about a dream he had the night before. He’s accepted that he doesn’t get movie nights and _what am I thinking_ and blue eyes that know just the right amount. 

He’s accepted it all, accepted that it’s for good this time. But it fucking hurts. 

The sparking wires tangle around his limbs and he doesn’t know how to move anymore, regret with a hold on him so tight that he almost mistakes it for snakes. 

_I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry._  

He knows Mikey won’t hear him, no matter how loudly he thinks it. He knows Mikey isn’t going to take off the whistle anytime soon, maybe he won’t ever again. He hopes, though. 

He can’t say it out loud. Can’t go face Mikey and say those words. Can’t look Mikey in the eye, because now he knows too much, doesn’t he? 

It starts to be a lullaby he knows too well, a bedtime story he’s heard too many times, thoughts that pick at him until he’s nothing but bone.

Every night. 

He has to hope. Hope that Mikey will take the whistle off, hope that he’ll hear him, hope that he’ll listen. 

That he’ll understand. 

At some point, he knows, he has to stop this - has to stop pretending this is something he deserves to be forgiven for. It isn’t, and Mikey’s right not to. He just wishes he wasn’t. 

Just over a month after broken hearts and fragile eggshells and burned palms, Ryan figures it’s about time that he stop. He can’t keep doing this anymore.

One last lullaby. His swan song. 

_I didn’t mean it._  

Nothing, as always. 

_I’m so fucking sorry._  

There’s a point, probably, where hope turns from wont ambitions to the pain of frequently burned bridges and tattered ones that lead to nowhere. 

_I miss you._

He could laugh at himself, probably. There’s a million ways he should have expected that this would happen, but mostly, he should be used to the constant state of _almost._

It’s the story of his life, of him and Mikey, isn’t it? 

They’re always _almost._ Always so close - so close to warm beach sunrises and a dozen roses, so close to scorched lands or cold waters. For the past several months, not for the first time in their lives, they tread along paper-thin lines, leaving Ryan addicted to the high of almost getting there. 

The reason things always fall apart for them is because they always teeter on the edge of a cliff - so close to taking off, and so close to going nowhere. So close to the safety of each other, so close to giving up. So close to actually pulling this off, and so close to pushing away. 

He walked along a tightrope leading to the best or darkest days for too long, and he always falls in the wrong direction. 

Burned bridges and ruined rosebeds, going nowhere, giving up, pushing away - it all loops around to the darkest days. Every time.

The high of almost getting there has a hell of a withdrawal, and Ryan learns, not for the first time, that there’s no safety in desire. 

_If I could do everything over again, I would._  

It hurts, but it’s the truth. 

More than that, it hurts knowing he’d do everything the same. If he could go back, he knows he’d just pick Mikey again. He’ll always pick Mikey, no matter what. 

_I’m sorry._  

His breath catches in his throat when the door knob turns, and Mikey walks it, shutting it quietly behind him. He’s not wearing the whistle, and the only reason he can be sure of that is because he _also_ doesn’t have a shirt on. It’s like wearing the whistle in plain sight, except the exact opposite. 

He’s here, and he’s listening. 

“Hey,” he whispers, and it feels too loud anyway. He remembers the first time Mikey came in here, remembers the pink sands warming up at the sight of the whistle in his hand instead of around his neck, and he lets himself hesitantly feel that again. He lets the harsh waters crash against the heat until it turns to steam; relief flowing out of him with every exhale. 

Mikey doesn’t say anything, but Ryan doesn’t miss the relief mirrored in his expression as he walks over to him, and he just wants to _touch,_ but doesn’t want to cross any lines. He misses the contact more than anything. 

Mikey smiles sadly and walks over to him, cupping the side of his face, and he doesn’t feel one ounce of shame when he presses against it. 

_I missed you._

“Yeah,” he says, breathless. He doesn’t say anything more before he takes his hand back and doesn’t even give Ryan a second to be sad about that before he climbs onto the bed, straddling his legs. 

He really isn’t sure what’s going on, but his heart is pounding and the heat is rising even more as the tides of _I love you_ start to come in. Little ripples for now, no bigger than what you get when you throw a rock into a still pond, but they’re there. They’re there, and he can’t stop himself from resting his hands on Mikey’s hips, his thumbs brushing against warm skin. 

Confusion tangles itself with comfort, and when he looks up at Mikey, he doesn’t need to tear his eyes away. Mikey knows just enough, and Ryan missed this just as much as he did when he apologised in almost this same manner. At least he had the decency to leave his shirt on for that. 

Mikey laughs at that, a quick little thing that makes Ryan’s heart jump. “I was in the living room.” 

“Yeah, but I waited until no one was home.” 

“Sorry,” the corner of his mouth twitches up, “I can leave and come back later.” 

“Absolutely not,” he squeezes his waist a little, as if to say _please stay_ in a way he couldn’t properly articulate. A little more desperate; scared, even. 

They need to talk about it. He wants to fucking ignore it forever, but they probably can’t. 

Mikey sighs and leans down to press their foreheads together, closing his eyes. 

He doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. He really doesn’t understand what’s going on at all, but Mikey is _so close_ and it’s like he’s stealing the only oxygen from the small space between them, leaving Ryan unable to breathe.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “So much, Ry.” 

Yeah. 

He could have had him, though. 

“You’re being difficult.” 

_I’m not doing anything,_ he thinks rather than says, still unsure if he can even speak.

Mikey huffs a little and angles his head closer, and Ryan doesn’t think about how he can feel Mikey’s nose slightly ghosting the side of his own as he shuts his eyes. He doesn’t think about how there’s no fucking space between them at all after yet another month of being leagues apart.

The waves of love are crashing a little harder now, and he wonders if Mikey is on the beach with him again. 

“Then do something.” 

He can feel the words on his own lips, and he slides his hands up so they’re just on skin and he feels too hot all over, like the warmth is boiling him somehow, and the waves are wild like they were when he was terrified he’d lost this for good, this time on the right side of excitement. 

The thought that caused the dark waves is the same thought that’s brought out by clear tropical waters- 

More than anything, he just really, _really_ wants to kiss him. 

“There it is,” Mikey breathes, leaning in the fraction of an inch to press their lips together for a fleeting moment, and Ryan follows when he pulls back. That didn’t even count. 

“No?” Mikey laughs, “what would count, then?” 

“This,” he doesn’t know if he thinks or says before he closes the gap again, and this- this is what he’s wanted for years. It isn’t perfect by any means, their noses keep bumping into each other and Ryan can’t stop smiling too much, but he wouldn’t change it. The little shared breaths before they lean back in stirs up the waters in his chest, the warmth and the crashing waves and stolen breaths spin and spin and he feels like a fucking hurricane. 

It isn’t a bad thing, not by any means. It’s out of control, and he’s spiraling, but the winds and Mikey’s lips are carrying him to where he belongs, the place he’d been washed away from. 

Pink sands are under his feet, a beautiful sunrise on the horizon, and he’s so fucking in love. He’s so in love, and he doesn’t know how this happened - wishes it had happened sooner. 

Slowly sliding his hands up his back, Ryan grips onto Mikey’s shoulders, trying to get a hold on anything he can. The next time he pulls back slightly to breathe, Mikey tugs lightly on the hem of his shirt - a silent question he doesn’t need to read minds to understand. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, needing to hear his own voice. It feels like he lost it, like the ocean stole it from him.

“This isn’t The Little Mermaid,” Mikey laughs, pulling Ryan’s shirt over his head. 

“Obviously,” he grins and holds his arms up a little to help him. “You’re a shitty prince.” 

“Who says _I’m_ the prince?” 

“Well, you’re certainly not a mermaid,” he tugs on Mikey’s hair once his shirt hits the floor. “Wrong flow.” 

“Who said I’m the mermaid?” 

“Well I hope you aren’t any of the other characters in that movie,” Ryan grins, moving his hands back to his sides, unable to stop himself from thinking about how lucky he is to be able to do that, “‘cause I’d probably have to pass.” 

“Who said-” 

“Just kiss me, idiot.” 

“Good idea.” 

He only presses their mouths together for a fleeting moment before pulling back again, and Ryan lets out a defeated sigh. “Why do I like you again?”

“Because I know how you work.” 

“I’m sorry?” he questions. As far as he’s concerned, he’d definitely rather they go back to what they were doing, thank you very much. 

Mikey laughs, “don’t be.” 

The best part about Mikey being able to hear thoughts, he’s just decided, is that he doesn’t even have to actually roll his eyes to get the point across. 

“Yeah? _That’s_ the best thing?” 

“It’s definitely a perk.”

“I’ll bet.” He tilts Ryan’s head with a few fingers under his chin, pressing a light kiss to his jaw, then a few more down his neck, pausing right before his collarbone, and his breath is warm when he asks, “is this okay?” 

Assuming he means what he thinks he- “yeah, Ry” -alright. He knows he should be a little worried about it, about if someone sees, but for the most part? He doesn’t care at all. He’s… he’s Mikey’s, always has been, and finally gets to have this - what’s wrong with wanting something to show for that? 

_“Christ,”_ Mikey mutters against his skin. “I love you so fucking much.” 

Ryan tries not to squirm, digging his fingertips into Mikey’s sides, and he isn’t sure that it’s hard enough to bruise, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it did. He kind of hopes it does, wants to see the fingerprints and know _I did that. I put those there._  

Because, as much as he wants to have a mark “proving” that he’s Mikey’s, he wants to show that Mikey is _his,_ too. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling away just enough to speak. “I am yours.” 

“You bet.”

He laughs at that, resting his forehead on Ryan’s shoulder. “You’re the worst.” 

“And, yet.” 

“And yet,” Mikey agrees. 

As much as he’s pretty sure he could do this forever and not complain once, as much as every fibre of his being _wants,_ he also knows they can’t really let things go any further than this tonight. Not when he still isn’t sure what they’re doing, not when there’s still so many misunderstandings left to clear up. 

“Hey,” he says softly, sitting up to look right at Ryan, “that’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to-”

“Stop it, I know that, but- I need you to promise that you won’t make yourself do anything because _I_ want to. Please tell me no, or to stop, or whatever.” 

He looks more serious than he ever has, and it makes his stomach flip. “I’m pretty sure you’d know-” he reaches up and taps the side of Mikey’s head “-if I didn’t want something.” 

“I’m serious, Ryan." 

“I know you are. I’ll let you know, I promise.” He doesn’t want to lose this over something stupid, something preventable. 

“Good,” he smiles fondly, running a hand through Ryan’s hair. “Besides, we should probably get some sleep.”

He doesn’t _mean_ to whine at that, but the broken little noise finds its way out of him anyway. He finally has all he’s ever wanted, and he never wants it to end. 

“We have all the time in the world, babe,” Mikey kisses his nose, and Ryan feels like he’s gone up in flames. _Babe._  

“Okay,” he nods, and a little cloud of concern fills his lungs. “Are you gonna stay in here tonight?”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

Laying half on top of Mikey, head on his shoulder while he absently plays with his hair as Mikey slowly runs a hand up and down his back leaves Ryan feeling more at peace than he has in a long time. Ever, maybe. Even on their quietest nights, the ones spent on a pretty beach sharing each other’s warmth until the quiet night turns into the quiet morning. Even way back when, under a tree in the park, simply being each other’s comfort. 

He doesn’t have to stay sewn together anymore, locking up the other half of his love for hours at a time, just so he doesn’t once again lose the parts he gets to have. Now the words and the warm waves mix together, and he feels lighter than ever. 

“You never had to hide from me,” Mikey says sadly, turning his head so he can look at him. Ryan doesn’t want to meet his gaze, just wants to stare at nothing in particular, but he’s never been able to do that for long. “You really didn’t.” 

“What?” 

Mikey brushes a piece of hair out of his face with his free hand. “I’ve wanted this - _you_ \- for years. _Fuck,_ Ry, I wanted it so bad.” 

“I think it’s badly,” he barely manages to say over the lump in his throat. 

“What?”

“I think it’s _badly,”_ he repeats, “you wanted it badly, not bad.” 

“Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?” 

Ryan shrugs with one shoulder. Grammar lessons are easier than feelings, probably. 

“Not for me.” 

“Well, I can’t tell what _you’re_ feeling all the time, so they’re pretty difficult for me,” he says, a little sharper than he meant to. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“If-” he stops himself to take a breath “-if that’s true, then why didn’t you do anything before.” 

“You didn’t let me.”

“What does _that_ mean? I didn’t get the chance to not let you.” 

“Every day,” Mikey cups his face and lightly brushes his thumb along his cheekbone, “you let me hold onto you, and you thought all these _things._ About me. And I felt how happy you were stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. Every day, I had to stop myself when I wanted to kiss you just- everywhere. Your shoulder, your forehead, and-” he slides his hand down, lightly touching the corner of his lips, “-but you didn’t want that. So I didn’t do it.” 

“I _did_ want that, though.” More than anything, that was all he wanted. For long before the nights Mikey’s talking about, he’s wanted that. 

“But I didn’t know that. It _felt_ like you were on the same page, but you never once thought about it. Of course I thought you wouldn’t want the same thing. You didn’t let me.”

He wants to cry, because this is still somehow his fault, like everything always is, and that must be the reason Mikey looked so shocked right before Ryan panicked. 

“Stop that, it isn’t your fault.” 

“You just said-” 

“That you didn’t let me, yeah. I never said I blamed you for it. I was scared, too.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Stop,” Mikey sighs, tilting his head to kiss him for a fleeting moment. “Please. We’re here now, and I love you more than anything.”

“Yeah.” 

He just wishes he could hear Mikey’s thoughts too. Wishes he got to know him the way Mikey gets to know him. 

“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” 

“Okay.” 

“You don’t really need to _hear_ what I’m thinking, because it’s all you. You and your pink beach and the way your love mixes with mine and it feels like my ribs can hardly hold it all in. You and how natural it feels to have you in my arms. You, and how lonely the years without you completely there were. You. That’s it. You’re all I ever fucking think about.” 

“Mikey-” 

“Nights are a lot colder when the sun sets for me too.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Ryan smiles, a little watery, “because you’re stuck with me now.” 

“Guess I should get new sunglasses, then.” 

“What’s the matter? Too hot to look directly at?” 

“I’m pretty sure the heat isn’t why you can’t look at it.” 

“I mean, isn’t it bright because it’s hot?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know how stars work.” 

“Me neither. But you have enough fucking sunglasses.” 

“Metaphorical ones, or-” 

“No, literal ones.” 

“Wrong, you can never have enough.”

There are a lot of things you can never have enough of, Ryan thinks. He doesn’t have enough words, never has, to say just how much he loves Mikey. It’s a good thing he doesn’t need them, in that respect. 

He doesn’t have enough, well, Mikey. _God,_ they’ve lost so much time, and- 

“Ryan-”

-the important thing is he has him now. If he had the chance to do it again, he would, and he would choose Mikey every time. When it gets right down to it, his heart beats for Mikey, always has, always will. He has him now, has his hand on his back, and his face so close to his own, and blue eyes he misses every time he’s without them, and a darkening mark on his neck, because he has Mikey, and Mikey has him. 

He doesn’t have enough time. Not enough hours to spend together, not enough days in the week to make it last, not enough years to fill with love. Forever wouldn’t be enough to make up for time lost and beyond that, he thinks, because even at the end of forever, he’d still have love left to give. 

He doesn’t have enough time, so he might as well start now. 

“Forever,” Mikey says under his breath, almost a question. 

_We have all the time in the world, babe._ “Forever, if you want.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> gosh, so there's that. shoutout to my buds that cheered me on throughout this whole process, bc without them I doubt it would have ever gotten done. that said, I'm actually rather proud of this, and I thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> much love <3


End file.
